


tumblr prompts: the kingsman edition

by futuredescending



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2018-07-16 05:18:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 56,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7254013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuredescending/pseuds/futuredescending
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short ficlets, ranging from lighthearted to not, inspired by various tumblr prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hartwin - don't you dare walk away

**Author's Note:**

> I have succumbed to the tumblr prompts. And tumblr is a terrible place to archive anything, so.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This first one is for AnnaofAza for the Five-Word Prompts meme: "don't you dare walk away"

“ _Don’t you dare walk away._ ”  


Harry has the good grace (and discipline) not to roll his eyes as he pauses mid-stride. The back of his mark is slipping quickly through the crowd, though by some miracle, he’s chosen to wear an ostentatious red jacket, making him admittedly difficult to lose track of. “It might have escaped your notice, Galahad, but some of us are currently engaged on a mission.”

“ _Just another look. C’mon, please?_ ” the voice wheedles in his ears, and when Eggsy sees that Harry’s viewpoint hasn’t changed, he seamlessly switches tactics to the sultry. “ _I’ll make it good for you._ ”

“Is that so?” Harry murmurs, tilting his head in consideration. When he speaks again, his voice pitches lower. “Then, I would like….”

He purposely trails off just to hear the way Eggsy’s breath grows heavier in anticipation, biting back a smile when Eggsy finally snaps. “ _Well?_ ”

“I want your next five reports to be filled out within one week of mission completion. Complete answers only. None of this ‘it was in the recording, you got two eyes’ nonsense either.”

“ _Oi!_ ” Harry imagines the scowl blooming across Eggsy’s face and how he’s probably crossing his arms in a huff. “ _I give you a blank cheque and this is what you want? See if I’m ever gonna suck your cock again._ ”

“Do you recall the last time you attempted to withhold sex in retaliation? I’m not worried, darling.”

“ _Shut up. I’m young and perpetually horny. It’s a curse and gift._ ”

“I believe you offered to suck my cock the last five nights in a row out of sheer boredom.”

“ _This broken leg is killing me, Arthur. I’m going outta my mind here. So why don’t you give a bloke his last dying wish, yeah?_ ”

Finally, Harry concedes and slowly turns around, letting Eggsy look his fill because he doesn’t want to have him whingeing in his ear for the rest of the evening.

“ _Oh. Oh yes_ ,” Eggsy breathes in a voice that Harry has only ever heard when Eggsy was about to achieve his third orgasm for the night. That is to say: after a lot of fucking work.

The fact that it’s being inspired by _the latest Adidas jacket_ (currently modeled by a fashionable young celebrity of some sort at the centre of an admiring entourage) makes all of this incredibly infuriating, to say the least.

“Happy? Or do you two need another moment?” he asks with a note of impatience after being subjected to a string of filthy breathy sighs.

“ _Mmm, alright. I’m good now, thanks._ ”

“Five reports,” Harry reminds him.

“ _Worth it_ ,” Eggsy happily sighs. “ _I may just suck your cock anyway for that._ ”

As Harry turns around and searches for his mark once more (still in the room, currently trying to oogle the cleavage of a young woman he’s chatted up), he says, “I will be holding you to that.”  



	2. hartwin - quit staring! they'll notice us!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Five-Word Prompts meme: "quit staring! they'll notice us!"

“Quit staring! They’ll notice us!” Eggsy hisses at Harry under his breath before darting a wary glance at the table on the other side of the restaurant.

Harry, of course, doesn’t so much as attempt to be discreet. Under any other circumstance, Eggsy would demand to know what kind of fucking spy Harry was supposed to be, except that he knows Harry is doing it on purpose.

Naturally, they notice.

“Is that…is that you, Harry?” the gentleman asks, eyes squinting and then widening in confirmation as he starts to get up and drags his poor wife with him. “Hullo there!”

Shit.

The problem with posh folks is that they enjoy going to exclusive places where other posh folks frequent, so the likelihood that one will run into someone one knows is fairly high. Normally that wouldn’t be an issue. They’re all people Harry knows, not Eggsy, and he doesn’t really care what they think of him when he opens his mouth.

But Harry does.

“Eddie!” Harry replies with false cheer, rising to greet yet another former classmate from Eton. “It’s been too long. How are you?”

“Can’t complain! Business is doing well and the last of the brood is finally off to university. Lydia and I can start planning our travels.” The woman in question struggles to pull out a tight smile from her pinched mouth when prompted.

And that’s when Eddie spots Eggsy, forcing him to stand and receive some paternal claps on the shoulder.

“Oh, and who do we have here? Why, Harry, I had no idea you had a son, you old dog! I thought you were committed to being a bachelor forever.”

“We all have to settle down sometime,” Harry says slyly and even throws in a bloody wink for good measure. “This here is Gary, my one and only. Gary, this is Eddie Gordon. He’s an old friend from school.”

Eggsy finds himself mirroring Lydia’s pinched expression as he shakes Eddie’s hand and bites out, in the thickest accent he can muster, “Nice to meet ya. Dad ain’t ever tells me much about his mates. Started to think he ain’t got any.”

It makes Eddie blink, but he’s too polite to say anything. Lydia glares at him like he’s just pissed on her shoes.

“Well I wish we had more time,” Harry says, making a show of checking his watch, “but I’m afraid I’ve got to rush off to meet a client. It was good to see you, Eddie, Lydia. Don’t be strangers.”

Eddie manages to recover enough to give Harry a somewhat dimmer smile. “Of course not. We’ll see you around, old chap.”

And here it comes. No matter how hard Eggsy glares forbiddingly, Harry remains undeterred as he snakes a hand around Eggsy’s waist and reels him into a filthy, open-mouthed kiss with copious amounts of tongue, saliva, and wet, smacking noises.

By the time they pull apart, Harry’s friends are as pale as ghosts, too shocked to do anything but stare as Harry wipes the spit off his lower lip, gives them a shit-eating grin, and hooks his arm around Eggsy’s to drag him out of the restaurant.

They get two blocks before Eggsy can’t hold it in anymore. “For fuck’s sake, Harry, that is _not_ how you adult.”

Oh, who is he kidding? That is exactly how Harry Hart, the man who thinks the appropriate response to a few knobheads insulting him is to start a brawl, adults. It’s just that Eggsy wishes Harry weren’t so determined to horrify and disgust every former acquaintance he’s ever known every chance he gets.

The ‘keep it in the family’ one is a particular favourite.

Eggsy sighs. “Next time, can you at least not eat the garlicky pesto thing beforehand? Do you know how many mints I’ve got to buy now?”

Harry just gives him a smug look, like a proud cat presenting its owner with a bouquet of dead rodents. Incorrigible.


	3. hartwin - why do i love you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Five-Word Prompts meme: why do i love you?

“Why do I love you?” Eggsy grunts as he hoists the dead weight of Harry’s body onto the cot. It would have been a lot easier if Harry weren’t as gangly as a fucking octopus. Predictably, his limbs proceed to sprawl over the sides of the bed, so Eggsy has to go about tucking them in against his sides.

“Because you said I have three legs,” Harry promptly answers, and Eggsy can feel the heat rush up to his cheeks, because he has also forgotten that, no, Harry is not unconscious, he’s just absolutely drugged up to his eyeballs on some super truth-telling/paralytic concoction right now. And while Harry hadn’t given his captors anything more valuable than his mother’s “very special” spotted dick recipe, he now apparently feels free to write a tell-all in front of the entire rescue team, which includes the Kingsman pilot, the medic, the five-member extraction crew, and Merlin listening in. “And that you wish I wore my suit jacket less often so you can watch my fit ar—”

Eggsy claps a hand over Harry’s traitorous mouth. “Those aren’t rebloggable thoughts!” 

There’s a muffled noise that sounds suspiciously like choked laughter over the comms. Eggsy gives them all a vicious glare that threatens horrible violence if anyone so much as breathes a word of this to others before returning his attention to his very high, very embarrassing lover.  


Harry blinks up at him innocently, then his eyes begin to warm the longer Eggsy gazes down at him. They are only slightly glazed over from the drugs.

He’d been nearly useless with terror the moment he watched Harry get captured. The hand used to muffle Harry’s ramblings now moves to cup his jaw. “Don’t you ever do that again, you hear me?”

“I love you,” Harry says, and Eggsy’s heart nearly stutters to a halt within his chest, because it’s the actual first time either one of them has said it to the other. At least directly. At least with that frighteningly serious expression.

“Tell me again when you’re sober,” Eggsy manages to croak, because if he starts tearing up now, he will never live it down.

“I will,” Harry replies as his lips drift into an exhausted smile. “Again and again and again. After I do that thing with my tongue you said you like where I put you over my—”

Oh, _fuck no_. Eggsy silences that next mortifying confession with a kiss.


	4. hartwin - zero fucks given. next please.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Five-Word Prompts meme: "zero fucks given. next please."
> 
> For Sassafrasx.

“Zero fucks given. Next please.”

Eggsy pauses and gives Merlin an affronted look. “You could at least try and pretend to care, you know.”

“Did anyone tell you that you resemble a wet cat when you look like that?” Merlin doesn’t even pause in his typing. Most people lie and say they can multitask. Merlin lies about it too, i.e. he pretends he is listening to Eggsy’s lovelorn woes as he works on breaking through MI6’s last firewall, but in reality, he is selectively tuning him out in order to prioritise other items that require more of his attention.

“You aren’t even looking,” Eggsy accuses.

“I know the face you’re making,” Merlin says. Whoever rebuilt MI6’s system after that last break in did a rather robust job. Merlin would be impressed if he wasn’t so thoroughly annoyed. “And do you want to know how I know the face you’re making? Because you make it every single time you barge in here to moan about the man you want to shag but are too scared to actually ask out, and then I tell you to please stop speculating to me on what you think my best mate and boss, and _your_ boss’s dick looks like. I don’t care, I will never care, and if on some freakish, apocalyptic day when invading aliens descend from the skies to enslave humanity and one of them decides to perform some advanced scientific procedure to induce me into, indeed, caring, then I will happily take this stylus,” he holds it up to show Eggsy, “and jab it into my brain via my eye socket.”

Ah, success! He’s in. With that challenge overcome, Merlin sags in relief and sits back, folding his hands behind his head. He finally dares to glance over at Eggsy, who is staring at him like he just shot his dog.

(Eggsy still isn’t over it. Merlin tells him that if he thinks that’s bad, every agent gets a cat to train on their fifth-year assessments, in which there isn’t a final test, just a cat that continues to live with them and destroys their furniture as well as anything that can be easily batted off their shelves for the next fifteen years.)

(Harry tells him to stop terrorising the junior agents, but considers implementing this new policy as a tier three penalty.)

Merlin sighs. Playing Kingsman therapist and confidant is not in his job description, but agents seem to think that because he so frequently plays the role of their psychological tormenter during their trials, they somehow have earned a free pass for life to come talk to him about what’s going on inside their frankly terrifying heads.

“Alright, look. I will only say this to you once and once only. After this, you will never talk to me about this matter again. Do you understand?”

Eggsy finally closes his mouth and nods eagerly.

“Do you know how many employees Harry regularly invites over to his home for dinners? Tea? Nightcaps?”

Eggsy frowns, then shakes his head.

“Do you know how many agents Harry insists on personally helping in choosing their next suit and, in fact, every suit thereafter?”

“Er…”

“Do you know how many agents Harry agrees to dogsit for? Babysit for? Picks up their mother when she gets a flat tyre and the agent is in Mongolia?”

“God, that was the fucking worst mission,” Eggsy grumbles. “Do you know what goes on in Mongolia? Absolutely fucking nothing, Merlin! I smelled like horse for a week!”

“Spends hours discussing formal place settings, teaching ballroom dancing, and expounding upon the entire fucking history of World War I because of an idle curiosity?”

“Well, Harry’s a great teacher. He’s got a nice voice. Very soothing.”

“Insists on checking in during missions just to see how it’s going, pesters the very busy and overworked Head of R&D to design new equipment because said agent thought it ‘would be cool’ to have flamethrower umbrellas?”

“…are we still talking about me here?”

Merlin throws up his hands and emits a noise that falls somewhere between a frustrated growl and howl of disgust.

“That’s it. Get out of my office. Go make cow eyes at someone else. Shoo.”

“But—”

“If you thought Mongolia was bad, you have yet to explore the natural wonders of the great nation of Greenland.”

“Alright! Fucking hell,” Eggsy grumbles, moving towards the door. “See if I ever come talk to you again.”

“One can only hope,” Merlin mutters, turning back to his computer screens.

“ _You’ve got to admit, the flamethrower is rather inspired_ ,” Harry remarks in his ear.

“To two demented, would-be arsonists, sure,” Merlin says. “You both deserve each other.”

“ _I don’t just want one night, Merlin_ ,” Harry sighs mournfully. “ _I want every day thereafter. But why would he want to be stuck with an old man like me?_ ”

“Oh for Christ’s sake.” Merlin stares at his keyboard and seriously contemplates repeatedly bashing his head into it.


	5. hartwin - rise and shine sweet thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Five-Word Prompts meme: "rise and shine sweet thing"

“Rise and shine, sweet thing,” is the first thing Merlin hears when he unfortunately returns from the land of the unconscious, carrying back a massive hangover as a keepsake.

He cracks his eyes to see Harry Hart’s indulgently loving expression beaming back down at him.

“Fuck me,” he groans and quickly slams them shut again.

“I thought that’s what we had done.”

This causes Merlin’s eyes to fly back open again as he sits up in alarm. In his burst of panic, he notes the details of his current situation: he is in Harry’s bedroom, in Harry’s bed, Harry is wearing his damned red dressing gown and he is wearing… _nothing_.

“ _No_.” Because there is no other word that can fully encompass the severity of his horror than utter denial. “Please, God, no.”

“That’s not what you were saying last night, dearest,” Harry says, looking puzzled, “Isn’t that right, Eggsy?”

“Wa’n’t ‘aying ‘at a’ all,” Eggsy agrees as he pops out from the en suite, in the midst of brushing his teeth. Eggsy is wearing a replica of Harry’s dressing gown as well. Together, they resemble twin red demons that could have been ripped from Merlin’s childhood nightmares (blame it on his Catholic upbringing).

Eggsy gives Merlin a saucy wink before siding up to Harry, briefly removing the toothbrush from his mouth to gift him with a noisy, foam-filled snog that threatens Merlin’s already shaky control over his nausea. 

And Harry, disgusting old pervert that he is, enthusiastically reciprocates before turning back to Merlin with a now toothpaste-covered face, “Breakfast will be ready in five. Do come and join us when you feel you’re ready.”

When the two of them finally take mercy upon him and leave him alone, Merlin finds his clothes considerately folded on a chair. He washes his face in the sink and takes desperate gulps of water straight from the tap to wash down a few tablets of aspirin, all whilst wishing there was a bottle of bleach nearby that he could have instead.

Breakfast is awkward and tense, at least for him. Harry has fixed them a full fry up, which Eggsy happily shovels into his face like he hasn’t eaten in years. Merlin stares at the beans gleaming up at him from his toast, swallows, and tries to gather his courage. “Did we really… _all of us_?…Did we really…?”

His stuttered question is greeted with silence. Merlin finally glances up to find Harry carefully taking his time in drinking his tea while Eggsy stuffs another bite of toast into his already full mouth.

Merlin’s throat dries up and his heart starts to sink into his stomach before he catches the slightest twitch at the corner of Harry’s mouth not hidden by his cup, and just like that, the entire illusion collapses. Eggsy snorts and almost starts choking.

“Oh, you fucking dobbers,” Merlin says. “I hate you both so much.”

“Serves you right, not holding your liquor proper under our roof,” Eggsy tells him with an unrepentant grin.

“You try going thirty-six hours without sleep after having to babysit Tristan and then having to keep up with you two lushes!” Merlin defends.  


“And then proceeding to declare you’ve had enough, marching yourself up the stairs, and falling asleep in our bed instead of the guest room,” Harry adds.

“Do you realise how difficult it is to fuck on a full?” Eggsy asks.

“Oh god, the things you do in your bed,” Merlin moans, cradling his still aching head in his hands. “The bed that my skin made direct contact with.”

“If it makes you feel any better, mate,” Eggsy says, giving him a consoling pat on the shoulder, “There really ain’t any surface in this house we haven’t had a go on.”

To absolutely no one’s surprise, it doesn’t.  



	6. hartwin - i said i love you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Five-Words Prompts meme: "i said i love you"

“I said _I love you_!?” Eggsy screeches at a pitch that makes JB perk his ears and raise his head, tilting it questioningly.

“You almost got into a one-sided fistfight with Percival over whether greyhounds were better than pugs, and when the other agents tried to drag you away to cool off, you insisted on having your turn at karaoke to vengefully sing ‘And I’m Telling You I’m Not Going’, dedicating it to Arthur before vomiting on his shoes and passing out, and _that’s_ the part that embarrasses you the most?” Roxy asks incredulously.

When framed like that, okay, yeah, all of it is cringe-inducing, but the most ghastly of all is… “I told Harry I loved him!?”

It’s just taking some time to sink in.

“Before vomiting on his shoes and passing out in the puddle of your own sick, yes,” Roxy helpfully reminds him. “He was very gracious about it. He wiped your mouth and helped carry you to the taxi and everything.”

“He didn’t ride with me?” Eggsy asks mournfully.

“No, the driver wouldn’t let him into his cab because of his soiled shoes.”

“Oh my god.” Eggsy does his best impression of an ashamed JB by burying his head beneath his arms, hoping the ground beneath his feet would open up and swallow him whole.

“It wasn’t your best showing, I’m afraid,” Roxy reluctantly admits. “On the bright side, Gawain said Kingsman’s holiday parties have never been this entertaining, which reminds me, there may be some videos floating about. At least half the agents had their glasses on.”

“Please, just shoot me right now and put me out of my misery,” Eggsy pleads.

Roxy rubs his head consolingly. “Eggs, why on earth did you let yourself get so pissed?”

“I was nervous!” Eggsy wails. “I got too worked up to eat, so I thought I’d just have a few to loosen me up. Apparently, I overshot the mark.”

“Nervous? About what?”

“The…declaration part. I was gonna…you know. Do it…there…with the whole ‘under the mistletoe’ fantasy. It was gonna be nice, actually. And in a really charming way that would have convinced Harry how mature and lovely I was.”

Roxy winces.

“Yeah,” Eggsy miserably agrees. “So, I guess I blew that one in pretty spectacular fashion and can now commence with the whole dying alone bit.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so hasty,” Harry says, nearly scaring Eggsy out of his own skin.

“Ahhhh…Arthur!” Eggsy immediately stands up with so much force, he knocks his chair to the ground.

Roxy takes one look at the two of them and quickly makes her excuses, giving Eggsy an encouraging look before coaxing her dog away.

“Arthur,” Eggsy repeats, straightening his shoulders and trying to adopt the most professional pose he can muster.

“Galahad,” Harry greets in kind.

“Arthur.”

Harry furrows a brow. “So I think we should talk about what happened at the—”

“—I just want to apologise for my truly appalling behaviour at the—”

“—holiday party—”

“—holiday party—”

They both stop and stare at each other.

“Eggsy—”

“Harry, I am so—”

“Eggsy,” Harry repeats firmly, shutting Eggsy up. “You may not have been at your…best…the other night. You may have said and done things you didn’t mean. I just want you to know that I won’t hold you accountable for them, not when you weren’t in your right mind.”

“I did mean them,” Eggsy blurts out. “I mean…I didn’t mean to ruin your shoes. Or pass out. Or try and fight Percival because he’s actually really fucking scary to cross…but…but what I said. About, uh, the thing. The thing about how I may feel towards…you…that part, I meant. Or was trying to mean. Say, I mean. I was trying to say those things to you because I meant them.”

“Ah, I see.” Harry nods. “Well, that certainly clears some things up.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy says, feeling his heart sink in his chest. “Yeah, guess it does. So, I should just go and—”

He doesn’t even get to finish his sentence, which was to inform Harry that he was intending on drowning his woes and lingering mortification with some quality time at the gun range (alcohol being out for obvious reasons), when Harry wraps an arm around his waist and draws him into a kiss.

Eggsy doesn’t pause in shock because he isn’t shocked. Kissing Harry is as natural as breathing. His body just bends towards him, his lips find their rhythm against Harry’s, his hands find their place splayed across Harry’s chest, fingers tightening into his shoulders to hold him close. Mistletoe not even required.

When they finally part, Eggsy opens his eyes and finds Harry looking at him with humbling tenderness as he runs his thumb across Eggsy’s lips. “I do too, by the way. Return that thing you meant to say.”

Eggsy can’t help the grin of happiness that stretches across his face. 

“And, I should add, the fact that you sang nearly every word and note of that song is…actually very impressive, all things considered.”

The grin becomes a grimace. “I’m really never going to live that one down, am I?”

“I believe Merlin is gleefully assembling a full music video from everyone’s personal feeds as we speak.” Harry smirks before the line of his mouth softens into a smile.

Eggsy nods in resignation. “I suppose I deserve that.”

And yet in spite of what is sure to be months to possibly years of humiliation to come, Eggsy can’t find it in himself to feel too much regret as his lips seek out Harry’s once more.


	7. hartwin - what is wrong with you?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Five-Word Prompts meme: what is _wrong_ with you?!

“What is _wrong_ with you?!” Eggsy asks—no, demands—as he turns on a somewhat abashed Harry.

But, to rewind a bit:

There’s the V-Day event, the whole getting it on with the Swedish princess and really…failing to get it on so much as falling apart instead. There’s the global cleanup and the running himself ragged and getting rid of Dean and his boys for good and trying each and every day to make Harry proud whilst still being unable to step foot in his house again even if it had been gifted to him in Harry’s will.

And then there was the miracle, the whole ‘rumours of my death being greatly exaggerated’ cliche (but a welcome one nonetheless), meeting the rambling, swaggering Statesmen (“With an ‘e’ because we’re not animals,” Jack tells him), but most important, most crucial of all: getting Harry back.

What follows could have been ripped from the script of any whacky rom-com: the mutual pining, the awkward run-ins, the miscommunications, the angst, the misplaced jealousies, until they finally get their act together—or rather, Merlin locks them in the tiny little toilet on the jet and refuses to let them out until they talk it out. It makes having a heartfelt confession whilst sitting on Harry’s lap rather awkward, to say the least.

But, intentions are cleared up and feelings are confessed and thus they emerge with an agreement to take things slow.

There are dates to nice restaurants and walks on the Heath and trips to the museums. There are also missions to Hong Kong and Singapore and Chile and the Ivory Coast. There are toe-curling makeout sessions that make Eggsy’s brain fizzle and go offline, but, frustratingly, never anything more, which sets off a whole other round of angst and miscommunication and insecurities and not talking to each other and shouting, and then Roxy, this time, locks them in the supply closet.

More feelings are confessed and there is almost shagging but for the great wet blanket that is Merlin who tells them in no uncertain terms would they be fucking among things that other personnel had to make contact with. Fair enough.

So now, this is going to be their night, alright? Eggsy is bound and determined to get laid. He all but throws their Kingsman glasses into the Thames to assure they will not be disturbed until at least half three the next day, there is going to be that much fucking planned.  


And it is all going very well, their hands all over each other’s bodies as soon as they step through Harry’s front door, buttons undone and ties unknotted and layers of posh clothing stripped off and left to wrinkle on the floor without a care. Their lips can barely stand to be apart from each other for more than seconds at a time, and when not engaged with the other’s mouth, there are plenty of other tantalising areas in which to explore.

It is all going wonderfully, fucking fantastically, until Eggsy turns the doorknob to Harry’s bedroom and finally gets a good look at the room where it is all about to go down and—

—and…

“What is _wrong_ with you?!” Eggsy asks—no, demands—as he turns on a somewhat abashed Harry.

So, alright. Harry has always deviated from the expectations of his class. Eggsy instinctively understood that the moment Harry decided not to watch-roofie him. As he got to know Harry more through the days of his training (plus or minus a coma here and there), he learned that maybe Harry was just a little bit more peculiar than he had originally let on. For one thing, Harry’s tastes in home decor were, one could politely call, _eccentric_ , but that was alright, because it wasn’t like Eggsy was going to have his own house featured in _Better Homes & Gardens_ any time soon. There was the whole office walls covered in tabloid covers part, and that was even admirable given Harry’s noble reasons for keeping them. 

Then there was the downstairs loo, covered in dead bugs with the centrepiece, of course, being Harry’s dead stuffed dog. That one had taken a bit of time to overcome, yeah, but as long as Eggsy didn’t…use that toilet, he was willing to look past it.

Except, as it would happen, Mr Pickle isn’t just a singular reminder to Harry of the value of an innocent life, no, he is also apparently the latest in a long line of late beloved pets that Harry had some trouble letting go of. 

As evidenced by a diverse showcase of them lovingly put on display all over Harry’s bedroom. Stuffed dogs, cats, birds, gerbils, mice, frogs, _fish_ , and is that…is that a hamster?

Each mount has a brass plaque fitted beneath it that declares their ridiculous names. Mr and Mrs Moppet. Emperor Mittens. Sir Henry Wallingford. Lord Mustard.

Good fucking grief. Talk about a boner killer.

“Eggsy,” Harry says hesitantly, “I, unfortunately only now, realise how this looks…”

“Do you?” Eggsy asks, his voice permanently lodged somewhere within his upper register. “Because it looks like you been feeding me all them scones just to fatten me up ‘cos you gonna wear my skin as a new suit!”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to be look disgusted and appalled, like Eggsy is being the unreasonable one.

“Oh my god,” Eggsy cries, the epiphany falling upon him like a sharp, cold draught. “I’m in love with a man who loves taxidermy. What sort of person does that make me? Did I always have this capacity within myself? Do _I_ secretly love taxidermy? Am I gonna look forward to the day when I can have bits of JB hanging over my bed like a mobile?”

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose and goes to sit on the edge of the bed. “Perhaps you should retire to the guest room where you’ll be more comfortable.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think that’s for the best,” Eggsy says, striving for calm and turning around so he doesn’t have to look into all those beady little eyes anymore.

He gets a few steps before he realises what’s missing. “Wait, ain’t you coming with me?”

“…you still want me to come with you?”

“Well… _obviously_. I didn’t just suffer through months of blue balls and your Mr Darcy cockblocks not to get off tonight! And so help me god, Harry, if you don’t bend me over in, like, the next five minutes, you’re gonna be the next dead thing stuffed and mounted in this room, and I ain’t talking about the fun kind.”

The next thing Eggsy knows, Harry’s picked him up and thrown him over his shoulder like a fucking caveman to be taken to the guest bedroom and hopefully utterly despoiled, and yeah, Eggsy’s not a little turned on by that, dead animals and all.  



	8. merhartwin - the one where harry and merlin are a wee bit over-protective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For litindecency's prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> _Yaas ok, so say Eggsy's kidnapped and both Merlin and Harry are freaking out, but they're freaking out in different ways. Like, Harry looks calm and but he's in dressing room three hoarding explosives and Merlin's yelling at everyone and ordering a chopper and entire evac because nobody touches his agents. When they get him back, Eggsy's like 'wtf is wrong with u 2 psychos' but he's still got stars in his eyes._

Eggsy goes unexpectedly dark on a mission in South Sudan. After 36 hours of no contact, Kingsman declares him MIA and Merlin initiates retrieval protocols.

“ _Try_ and remember more than that!” he all but shouts at Lily, Eggsy’s poor handler. “Details, details. Nothing is insignificant. What sounds did you hear? What time of day was it? Did you or did you not do adequate enough research?”

For a tried and tested member of the Kingsman staff for several decades, one would have thought Merlin to be unflappable. Under most kinds of stress, one would be correct. However, there is nothing that makes Merlin visibly lose his composure more than not knowing what has happened to one of the agents under his care, and after losing James and nearly losing Harry so recently, his stoic restraint has worn even thinner.

“Merlin,” Harry says quietly, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder and feeling how Merlin nearly vibrates with tension, “You pressuring the poor girl isn’t going to make her recall anything faster. Go cool down and give her some space.”

Merlin makes a noise somewhere between disgust and frustration but storms off, and Harry gives Lily an apologetic look, politely not commenting on the tears that threaten to spill over onto her cheeks, but does remind her, “Just try. A life is at stake.”

With this small reprieve, Lily clears her head and is able to triangulate a rough location of Galahad’s last point of contact within five square kilometres, and using knowledge of the area, terrain, and likelihood of who could have abducted their agent, they trace a projected trajectory over the border into northern Kenya with an end goal likely to be Somalia and deep within the heart of al-Shabab territory, where it would be far more difficult to perform an extraction.

Merlin doesn’t even clear it with Arthur to issue the cargo plane bearing three evac choppers and four units, because others have long since learned by now not to get between him and his missing agent.

The plane lands in Moyale, and from there, the choppers, each bearing its own extraction team, with one alternate standing by, set off.

“We have a small window! Let’s go, let’s go!” Merlin urges, outputting enough tension to power the sun. “Helos 4, 8, and 9 being deployed and…”

…and he only then realises that Harry is no longer in the room with him and hasn’t been for quite some time.

“Where the hell is Arthur?” he asks aloud.

“Er,” comes an awkward voice from Helo 4. “He’s with us, sir.”

“What?” Merlin squawks. “Arthur, what the hell do you think you’re doing!?”

“Hello, old friend,” comes Harry’s smooth reply over the comms. Through one of Helo 4’s feeds, one of the men pulls up his goggles and mask to reveal Harry’s smug face. “I decided to take a page from your book: if you want the job done right, you must do it yourself.”

“That does _not_ mean you are cleared for the field, you jobby wallaper!”

“I do so love it when you talk dirty to me, sunshine.”

“Arthur, you do _not_ get out of that chopper, do you hear me? Team Leader 4, you do not let Arthur’s feet so much as graze that ground!”

“Seeing as how I _am_ Team Leader 4, Arthur, and therefore yours and everyone else’s boss, I countermand that order,” Harry cheerfully says before replacing his mask and goggles. “Target within sights, visual confirmed, engaging now.”

“Tha thu ‘nad fhaighean!”

“Mind the chatter,” Harry says, giving the camera a thumbs up and Merlin just knows the bastard is grinning.

He can only watch as Helo 4 descends upon the little ragged caravan bearing their kidnapped agent with Helo 8 and 9 fast approaching for backup as needed.

With a Kingsman agent, even a former one, on board, there is no need.

Years behind the desk have apparently done little to dull Harry’s reflexes as he mows through the kidnappers, not with the automatic rifle all Helo members are issued, but with his own two hands, just like he prefers.

“Peacocking bastard,” Merlin grumbles.

But it’s all worth it when Harry dispatches the last man and moves towards the back of the truck to where Eggsy is tied up in the corner, a bag over his face. Harry swiftly rips the thing off, and while Eggsy certainly bears the beat up visage of one who didn’t go quietly, it’s still a sight for Merlin’s sore eyes.

“Harry,” Eggsy croaks through a tired smile, because of course the little shit would be able to recognise Harry from the sounds his victims make as they die.

“Hello, darling,” Harry says, cupping Eggsy’s cheek and deftly avoiding the long gash that is still sluggishly oozing a sheet of blood down the side of his face. “Need a lift?”

“Ta, that would be lovely. Gonna go pass out now,” Eggsy answers faintly before immediately doing just that.

Forty-eight hours later, Eggsy is already up and about despite a concussion and numerous fractured ribs because if Harry had been sent to shave decades off Merlin’s life, then Eggsy was probably going to finish him off. _Galahads_.

Merlin is debriefing an unrepentant Harry, which is more or less a thin excuse to give him a thorough dressing down for behaving so recklessly when it’s his responsibility to not put himself in the line of fire anymore, when Eggsy bursts into his office.

“What the fuck?” Eggsy greets them with, which is really something Merlin ought to be asking.

He counts to five in his head and prays to any higher power listening in to give him patience, but he’s sceptical any such divine being exists given the state of his life. “Is there something you needed, Galahad?”

“Yeah, I heard about your Hulk rampage from the other handlers. You made Lily cry!”  
  
Merlin sighs, rubbing the back of his neck when he realises his actions, in hindsight, do seem, perhaps, a bit over the top. “Eggsy…”

But Eggsy isn’t having any of it. “Do you realise the last time she cried was in 2009 when Patrick Swayze died?”

“Ah, so that’s why she keeps humming that bloody song,” Harry muses. “Really, Merlin, Eggsy does bring up a good point. You owe your division an apology for sending at least five of them to up their therapy sessions. Morgana is threatening to quit.”

“And you!” Eggsy says, turning to a surprised Harry and poking him in the chest with a finger. “You have no room here to speak!”

“Me?” Harry blinks.

“Merlin, do you wanna know why you had to put in a sudden increased order for ammo, lighters, knives, and C4 this morning?”

Merlin frowns. “I…how did you know that?” He had assumed someone had been keeping shoddy inventory, but now that he thinks about it, the sudden dip in supplies is rather suspicious.

“‘Cos this psycho here has got them all in his office!” Eggsy informs him, giving Harry’s chest another sharp poke that causes Harry to wince. “He had them on him when he was rescuing me. Did you know that? Do you know how a man can fit that many weapons and explosives on his person? ‘Cos I sure as fuck don’t and I don’t even wanna suss out where he was storing them. I’ve worn that tactical gear before. I know how many pockets it’s got!”

Now it’s Merlin’s turn to give Harry an accusing stare. “And you call me a drama queen?”

“I like to be prepared,” Harry sniffs, looking like a cat who _meant_ to fall off that shelf, thank you very much.

“You two are ridiculous human beings,” Eggsy announces while glaring at the two of them before his expression gentles and he has to look away when he says, far more softly, “…but thanks, you know?”

Harry reaches up and takes hold of his hand, sharing a warm look with Merlin before smiling up at Eggsy. “Anytime, dearest,” he tells him, “And, let’s be honest, _every_ time.”


	9. hartwin - pipe the fuck down, asshole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Five-Word Prompts meme: _pipe the fuck down, asshole_
> 
> For piejunkie.

“Pipe the fuck down, asshole,” is apparently what is foremost on Daisy’s mind when asked by her mother, _So what did you learn today with Uncle Harry?_

And with five words, Harry Hart’s brief stint as Daisy Unwin’s occasional minder comes to a crashing end.

After several moments of stunned silence, two accusing pair of Unwin eyes shift from the little girl and focus on him. He’s received friendlier expressions from Soviet assassins who preferred him drowned at the bottom of the Dnieper River. “Well…of course she was exposed to the…er…more colourful vernacular found amongst the various cultures of our fair city as well.”

“Where did you take her?” Michelle demanded.

“…a football match.”

“A football match? She’s a five-year-old girl!”

“Are you saying girls can’t enjoy football?”

“No! I’m saying…she’s a bit young to be hanging around them hooligans, don’t you think?”

“This one had chickens!” Daisy gleefully announces.

This time it was Eggsy’s turn to be outraged. “Chickens?”

Despite Harry’s desperate gestures to keep quiet, Daisy continues to enthusiastically elaborate, “They were fighting with their feet and flapping their wings a lot. They made noises like this: _Rrrrreeeeeech! Rrrrreeeech! Reeeeeech!_ ”

“You took my little sister to a cock fighting ring?” Eggsy screeches, not sounding all that dissimilar from the noises Daisy was imitating.

Daisy starts giggling. “Eggsy’s a cock.”

“Oh my god,” Michelle mutters before covering her mouth in horror. “You’ve corrupted my little girl.”

“Mrs Unwin,” Harry begins, “I can explain—”

“No! Nope, I don’t wanna hear any more,” Michelle says, pulling Daisy from Harry’s side and up into her arms. “We’re gonna go. We’re gonna go see a nice Disney film and forget this whole day ever happened, alright, love? How would you like that, babe?”

“ _Rrrrreeeeeech! Rrrrreeeech! Reeeeeech_ , asshole!”

“Oh my god,” Michelle repeats, practically in tears before giving Harry a venomous glare and swiftly taking her leave. From over her shoulder, Daisy waves at them cheerfully. Really, it’s not like he’s gone and turned Daisy into a serial killer.

Once the door slams shut, Eggsy turns on him. “What the fuck did you do? We’ll be lucky if we get to attend Daisy’s school events at this rate.”

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose and makes a beeline for the alcohol. “Clearly Daisy has yet to master discretion.”

Eggsy trails after him. “She’s five, Harry! She don’t even know what that means! And you still haven’t explained what you two were doing in a highly illegal and dangerous place.”

“I was taking Daisy for a walk in the gardens—”

“—and took a right turn into a cockfight?”

“—and happened to spot a person who was of significant interest to Kingsman.” Harry glares at Eggsy. “So I…proceeded to tail him in order to observe what he was doing in London.”

“While you were charged with the care and protection of my little sister?”

“Well, I couldn’t very well abandon her at the nearest toilet,” Harry reasons. “Besides which, she’s a very good tracker. Once I told her to keep her eyes on the man in question, she never once let him out of her sight.”

“You used my sister to help you spy?”

“She found it be great fun!”

“Did she also enjoy seeing two chickens attempt to brutally rip each other to shreds?”

Harry winces. “To be fair, I hadn’t known that was where our target was headed until after we got there,” he admits before taking several swallows of scotch.

“Where did you think he was gonna go? The petting zoo?”  


“We were in Primrose Hill!”  


“Well, I’m glad you learned so much about your _person of interest_ while exposing my innocent little sister to an inhumane and, let me stress again, highly illegal activity, _and_ adding so much delightful ‘colour’ to her vocabulary that I’m sure her teachers are just gonna love. And to think mum was just starting to warm up to you.”

“…I suppose we can agree that childcare is not one of my stronger suits.”

“You think?”

“On the bright side, I did manage to get close enough to the target to plant a listening device on his person so that Kingsman will be able to continue monitoring his activities.”

Eggsy remains quiet. It is, Harry has learned by now, the sort of quiet more akin to a volcano about to erupt than a tranquil lake.

“You brought my baby sister in close proximity to a dangerous criminal!?”

Oh dear. Perhaps he should not tell Eggsy about the two ice cream sundaes Daisy managed to extort from him for keeping her silence—a silence he should have stipulated would last to the grave, not a measly hour. Clever, clever girl. She had the makings of a spy in her yet.


	10. gen - JB - JB versus The Spindly Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is all AnnaofAza's fault.

JB absolutely, without a doubt, despised the strange man with spindly legs and strange objects on his face. Ever since he became his human’s mate, many things changed in JB’s life, and not for the better.

First, JB and Eggsy were forcibly separated from their cosy little pack and made to live in the spindly man’s strange-smelling territory. Strange because every so often JB catches the faintest whiff of another member of the pack, and yet he has not been able to find hair nor tail of this mysterious creature anywhere no matter how hard he looks.

Second, the spindly man always scolds JB for sitting on the Sofa and the Chair and the Bed. This is confusing because JB is Eggsy’s second in command and his rightful place is anywhere he damn well chooses, and especially so when his human is in the room. Eggsy understood this perfectly well, but the spindly man does not.  


Third and perhaps most upsetting of all: JB, who has been sleeping next to Eggsy for as long as he can remember, is suddenly No Longer Permitted to do this. Worse still, he is no longer allowed to even be within the same room at night. This turn of events has coincided with the spindly man _taking JB’s place_ beside his human. JB knows this because they often emerge the next morning smelling strongly of each other.

In fact, not only is Eggsy starting to smell more and more like the spindly man, but has also started wearing the strange objects on his face as well. It has become apparent that the spindly man (Eggsy does not call this creature ‘the spindly man’. Eggsy addresses this creature by opening his mouth and making a sound that is similar to the way he yawns. At first, JB couldn’t understand why his human was so tired all the time, but now he knows that the spindly man simply has a very stupid name that JB refuses to acknowledge) is asserting his claim over JB’s human. It will not do. It will not do _at all_.

But what really reaffirms JB’s judgement that the spindly man is Bad is the day when JB finally discovers the source of that elusive pack member. A door that usually remains closed is open one day, just a crack, but when JB passes by it, he catches that scent that had been beguiling him ever since his and Eggsy’s exile to this place. But when he noses open the door even more, he finally comes to understand the true depravity and horror of the spindly man: his brethren mounted above him, smelling like terror and death, a mockery of himself.

That is the day that JB decides to seek vengeance against the spindly man and hopefully to save his human and himself from suffering the same fate.  



	11. hartwin - “There’s no going back if we do this.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For thisbirdhadflown; prompt: "There’s no going back if we do this.” Angst, mentions of blood & injury. There you are.

“There’s no going back if we do this.”

A final warning. But what hits Eggsy hard isn’t the prospect of what can, and in all probability, _will_ go wrong, it’s the utter and unexpected forgiveness in Harry’s expression, which had, for so long, been devoid of any warmth.

It’s Harry’s suddenly vulnerable eyes that say, _it would be okay if you didn’t_.

It’s _I would still love you, no matter what._

Eggsy loads a round in the chamber of his gun and grimly wonders whose body will it find its final home in. Merlin? Arthur? Roxy? “I know.”

What Harry doesn’t understand is that for Eggsy, there is no choice.

It is only now, when matters have been brought to such a devastating head, that Eggsy realises the truth.

Even he hadn’t known, all those years ago, that the fealty he had sworn to Kingsman the organisation had, in fact, been fealty to Harry the man, whatever version of him he would encounter.

He doesn’t _like_ this Harry. Not really. Everything this Harry has done has flown in the face of his values, the very fibre of his morals.

But Eggsy still loves him anyway.

He thinks he understands his mother a little bit more now.

Which is why, Eggsy thinks, this night will end in bullets and blood and, very likely, his and Harry’s bodies splayed out over the pavement to later be catalogued as deceased, stamped as traitors in some file somewhere, honours and recognitions and mentions taken away like they had never happened at all, like this one act tonight will have erased decades of good deeds, of _doing the right thing_.

It will.

“Oh, my dearest, loyal darling,” Harry whispers, raising his hand to cup Eggsy’s face. He smiles like someone has stretched it out over his lips, facade-like and empty. “You always placed your faith in me even when I wasn’t deserving of it. Selfishly, I have always accepted it. It’s enough, now, to know that you would have done, for me.”

Eggsy hears the deafening crack of a gun, feels _fire_ , then numbness, and doesn’t understand.

Not until he hits the ground, unable to breathe, feels the blood bubbling up from his chest, pooling out beneath him, feels the agony.

He looks up at Harry, at Harry’s gun, at the smoke that still lingers in the air. His mouth gapes open, but words won’t come. The pain of the gunshot wound steals them all away.

Harry crouches down next to him. His expression is clinical, almost passive. “You should try to keep calm. Conserve your energy. Accept the pain. Your injuries are serious, but you’ll be saved in plenty of time, so there’s no need to be afraid.”

The hand is back on his cheek, warmer, or maybe it’s because Eggsy is going into shock. “When they ask what happened, tell them you tried to take me out, but I got the upperhand. Tell them I tried to get you to join me, but you refused. Tell them anything they need to hear.”

“ _Harry_ ,” he moans, starting to shake. Everything hurts. _Everything hurts._

“And then forget me, Eggsy,” Harry says desperately, like it pains him, bending even lower to cup his chin. “Live your life. Be an excellent agent and an even better man. Be the man that I love.”

“Harry. _Harry_ ….”

Harry silences him with a kiss on his numb, blood stained lips before climbing back up to his feet. The curtains have fallen over his face again, and Eggsy knows he is now looking at Harry Hart, former codename: Galahad, once mistakenly believed to have been KIA in Kentucky, U.S. of A., now known to be a dangerous enemy of the state, a terrorist, to be taken out upon sight with extreme prejudice.

When Harry turns and walks out the door, Eggsy knows it will be the last time he sees him at all.


	12. hartwin - “I can’t do this anymore.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I can’t do this anymore.” For violyntfymme. Angsty breakups & makeups. WHY IS THIS SO LONG.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

It’s rare to catch Harry off-guard. He’s seen too much, _done_ too much, gone into the red justifying ends over means. Over the years, the long arc of his outlook has gradually and inevitably bent towards cynicism rather than justice.

But Eggsy has always been full of surprises.

Such as it is, when Eggsy’s shoulders sink in defeat, when the flare and flint of his fury gets snuffed out to leave a dull and flat sheen of emptiness in its wake, the world comes to a sudden and surprising halt.

Harry forgets how to breathe. He takes in oxygen, his lungs expand, but that is all. Every disgruntled thought, snide observation, and resentment brewing from their heated fight ceases to exist. The last syllable still rings in his ears, an endless, damning refrain. It’s not unlike those times after the battle’s been waged and he has glanced down at himself as the adrenaline gradually waned, transfixed by the blood pouring out from his body, not even feeling it.

But Harry is too practised at composure. The walls, solidly built and many times reinforced, don’t come crashing down so easily anymore. If his mind stutters, it’s only for a moment, barely noticeable, a shadow flickering over the ground, before he remembers himself, who he is: a veteran Kingsman agent, a prideful man with dwindling returns.

A better man would have said, _I’m sorry_.

A better man would have said, _I can change_.

A better man would want to.

He’s never been a better man. Sometimes he doesn’t even think he’s a good one.

“Then you’re free to walk away.”

 

_____

 

Breakups are strange things, more so the older one gets. It’s not like the movies, filled with explosive endings, loved ones’ tokens burned in effigy, satisfying closure, reaffirmations and moving on to new and greatly improved significant others.

His and Eggsy’s lives have become so entwined that trying to sort out what is what is a lengthy and challenging process of its own.

There is the cohabitation, for one.

Though Eggsy had moved into his home and hadn’t brought much in the way of his own possessions, over the years he had cultivated preferences and accrued his own memories and keepsakes. There are books that Harry doesn’t know are his or Eggsy’s. Kitchen gadgets in the drawers. Ties and cuff links. Socks. There are things they bought together that neither can claim. There are things he has bought for Eggsy, and vice versa, whose ownership now is wary and uncertain.

There is the fact that they work together, and often quite intimately, embarking on missions where they pretend to be good friends, business partners, lovers. Where they must sleep close to each other, bodies pressed all along each other, in an effort to stay warm in hostile conditions. Where they can still laugh and smile at each other. Hold genuinely pleasant discussions like they used to do in the nascent days of their friendship. Still put their lives in each other’s hands, trusting utterly, unquestionably.

And then there’s the fact that they, much to their respective best mates’ dismay, still fuck each other.

They still fuck each other because their bodies still sing in each other’s presence and are still perfectly attuned to each other’s frequencies, chemistry being, as Eggsy would say, a hell of a drug. In a way, it’s comfortable, familiar. They know each other by muscle memory. Harry knows that Eggsy likes hard, but not too hard, bites along his neck and shoulders. That Eggsy can come untouched, repeatedly, after smoking two joints. That the backs of his knees are ticklish and there is a mole on his hip that Harry has licked countless times. Eggsy knows that Harry likes to fuck with his body pressed as close to his as possible at all times, barely thrusting so much as grinding slowly into completion, skin sweaty, messy, filthy. That he prefers it when Eggsy is vocal, the louder the better.

They still fuck each other like a bad habit because they see each other too much at work to not have a quick go over the desk or in the shower after a rousing sparring match, and Eggsy keeps coming by his house to reclaim more of his things that he is only moving out by degrees, which often ends in another roll into the bed or against the wall, over the sofa, and once, on the stairs.

“We probably should stop doing this.”

“Probably.”

They still fuck each other because fucking was, in fact, how their relationship had begun in the first place, an easy exchange of pleasure, a friendship with benefits, a way to let off steam from difficult missions. By mutual, unspoken agreement, neither one sees a reason not to slide back into that still-so-easy dynamic.

They still fuck each other even when Eggsy starts tentatively dating again, and Harry doesn’t because he tells himself he’s too old and too busy for such nonsense.

And then one day, they stop fucking each other, though Harry won’t have known it for what it was at the time.

Eggsy stops coming by his home and his voice remains friendly but professional at work. Harry doesn’t question or push for anything more. He takes his cues from Eggsy, behaves accordingly: cordial, even warm. They cannot be less than fond friends at this point, but there is distance now.

By accident, he learns of Eggsy’s new relationship. It’s still young, but it’s becoming serious. Eggsy probably hadn’t meant for Harry to hear of the relationship so soon, but agents enjoy gossiping too much to remember neither caution nor discretion.

Still, Harry sincerely congratulates a discomfited Eggsy and wishes him nothing but the best before heading home to drink himself into a truly terrible hangover the next morning.

 

_____

 

“You can take a page from Eggsy’s book,” Merlin tells him over their routine weekly nightcap, “And start dating again too, you know.”

“I’m fifty-six years old and the longest, most complicated relationships I’ve ever had were with a dog I was willing to shoot dead for a job and a boy less than half my age whose father I got killed.”

Merlin considers this. “I don’t exactly recommend putting that on your Tinder profile.”

“Besides, I’d long since reconciled myself to a life of being alone even before Eggsy,” Harry reasons, staring long and hard into his glass of scotch before giving Merlin a shrug. “Nothing has changed, really.”

“That’s a load of bollocks,” Merlin snorts. “Everything has changed.”

“Sorry?”  


“You’ve had a taste of a life without loneliness.”

“Being alone doesn’t mean one is lonely.” Harry glares.

Merlin raises his hands long enough for Harry to relax before asking, pointedly, “But aren’t you?”

 

_____

 

The truth is, yes, he _is_ lonely. The newfound absences that Eggsy has carved out of his life have mass. They press against his body, all his vital organs, compressing his chest, clamping down on his throat, and then impossibly expanding inside of him, filling him with an empty, constant ache.

He thinks maybe he should take up a new hobby or revive an old one, but outside of work, he doesn’t know when he stopped having any at all, that for the past few years, his life had been consumed by his devotion to Eggsy, his comfort, his growth, his happiness. All his own personal desires and enjoyments subsumed in the nurturing of this boy because Harry had loved Eggsy, wanted better things for him, and had poured all of his expectations onto him, only realising now how unfair he had been, to both Eggsy and himself, by doing so.

 

_____

 

“This isn’t…” Merlin huffs and tries to find a more stable foothold on the rock wall than the wobbly notch he’s currently trying to balance most of his weight upon, “My god, don’t you do enough of this climbing business for work?…what I mean by dating.”

A good two metres above him, Harry can only glance down and give him a shit-eating smile. “We’ve been friends for so long, Merlin. Why ever not?”

“For one,” Merlin says, incrementally heaving himself up another inch, “You only insist on doing the things _you_ want to do—”

Harry scoffs. “I wouldn’t consider attending a White Hat conference in Stuttgart to be the most romantic of activities.”

“We would drive each other mad.”

“Like we already don’t.”

“And, if you remember, the one time we _did_ shag….”

Harry internally winces and almost headbutts the wall. “Ah, right.”

Merlin uncharacteristically takes pity on him, which means the next knife he slips in is done rather quickly. “And there’s the whole thorny issue of you not being over your ex.”

 _Ex_ , like Harry is a lithesome twenty-something again and not a more-than-middle aged foolish man. “It’s been six months—”

“Three of which were still spent screwing each other’s brains out on every conceivably flat surface.”

“ _Six months_ ,” Harry insists. “I’m more than over it.”

“You know what I think?”

“Oh god,” Harry moans and, in a fit of sudden vexation and annoyance, pushes himself the last half meter to reach the top, swinging his legs over the ledge, then turning to peer smugly down at his friend. “You know exactly what I have to say to that.”

Merlin steadfastly ignores him. “I think,” he grunts out, trying to pick up the pace, “you thought you were extremely lucky when Eggsy wanted to shag you, sagging jowls and crow’s feet and all.”

“Rude.”

“Here was this attractive and highly capable young man who looked at you like you’d hung the moon. You didn’t think that would happen. You don’t think it could happen again.”

“You _did_ just shoot me down for a date.”

“For the immense size of your ego, it is, at times, curiously fragile.”

Harry doesn’t really know what to say to that, except, “That’s a bit on the nose.”

“Well, you do look to me to tell you the truth.” Finally, _finally_ , Merlin joins him at the top, coming to sit with him on the ledge, looking ten shades of shattered for it. “Ugh, that was awful.” And then, “You’re wrong, you know.”

“Mm?”

“You could have it again, with a surprisingly large amount of people, even another young thing, if you’d let yourself. You can actually be charming when you want.”

It wasn’t age that had made Eggsy so alluring, Harry wants to argue, feeling, still, some bizarre need to defend his honour even now. If anything, Harry had come to love Eggsy in spite of it.

 

_____

 

“Don’t you have better places to be on a Friday evening?” Harry asks when he opens his front door to find Eggsy leaning heavily against the frame.

“I broke it off with Stephen,” Eggsy replies, muttering more into the wood than to Harry. “Guess I wasn’t ready.”

“Ah,” Harry says and adjusts his glasses because he can’t think of anything else to say or do except something he knows he’ll regret. “Would you like to come in?”

Eggsy familiarly curls up on one end of the sofa, his preferred spot, like no time has elapsed at all. Harry asks if he’d like some tea and Eggsy asks for the port.

Harry doesn’t sit in his customary seat next to Eggsy. He sits on the chair, close but at some distance removed. It feels both appropriate and melancholy.

Eggsy doesn’t even seem to notice Harry is still in the room. His gaze is caught at middle distance, features softened into introspection. He doesn’t feel the urge to fill the heavy silence with his usual lively banter.

Harry doesn’t press him for more. It seems like it would be impolite to turn on the telly, so he picks up the closest book at hand, cracks open the cover, and contents himself with quietly reading.

 

_____

 

It’s all very predictable.

As much as he hates being a cliche, he likes Eggsy’s company more. He’ll take it any way he can get it, and now he’s getting plenty of it, the way Eggsy seeks him out again in his free moments both at HQ and home. They were friends first, after all, even before they had been friends with benefits. Sometimes they have light conversations, sometimes they’ll just sit in the same room together as they each attend to their own reports. Sometimes Eggsy will sit next to him on the sofa and they’ll watch films. Sometimes, if it’s late or Eggsy has had a few too many, he’ll sleep in the guest room, at least until the time he falls asleep on Harry and Harry falls asleep too while concentrating on remaining as still as possible.

Merlin would probably shake his head and say, “This is not what I meant about moving on,” but life, and especially love, doesn’t always move in the expected chronological and emotionally acceptable order. Not every life event has the chance to be a teachable moment or a lesson hard learned. Sometimes, people _don’t_ grow from their experiences.

But he’d rather have Eggsy anyway.

“This is such a terrible idea,” Eggsy says before he snaps at the rubber tourniquet strap and captures it between his teeth to tighten it.

“I think we both know that you and I have done worse,” Harry says before asking, “Ready?” and mirroring Eggsy’s actions with his own outstretched, bare arm, shirtsleeves rolled up, syringe braced over a waiting vein at the inside of his elbow.

Eggsy gives a brisk, confirming nod and they both plunge their respective needles into their skin and depress the plungers.

The effect is almost immediate. Harry feels warm and then expansive and then positively buoyant in a manner he hasn’t been since the first time he got drunk at uni.

Across from him, he can see Eggsy feeling similarly, his whole body relaxed and practically melting into the sofa.

“Fucking like this would be amazing,” Harry says out loud instead of thinks, which is as sure a sign as any that Kingsman’s concocted version of truth serum works astoundingly well.

“Fuck, yes,” Eggsy agrees, smiling wide before crawling into Harry’s lap and practically writhing against him, already hard. “We could, you know.”

“I really, really want to,” Harry says, moving forward to kiss the corner of Eggsy’s jaw. “But we’re both too good at using sex as a form of diversion. Defeats the purpose of this whole mad idea.”

“You’re right,” Eggsy sighs and reluctantly slides off him. “Which gets annoying, you know, like it just goes to show that no matter how much I learn or accomplish, I’ll never match up. You’ll always outclass me.”

“I’m vastly older than you with much more experience under my belt. That’s the only reason why I can still best you on some things and said things amount to less with each passing day. Only time can take care of it. You’re better than I was at your age, you’ll be better than me now when you reach mine.” Harry frowns. “I know we’ve had the age discussion before, but that doesn’t mean those feelings have disappeared.”

“I don’t know how to reassure you except to keep on showing you how much I still love you,” Eggsy says with a hint of exasperation.

“We just broke up and you started dating a man almost twenty years younger than me.”

“Only because everyone was telling me I needed to move on, get out there, start dating again!” Eggsy’s voice rises sharply before he seems to realise how shrill he’s reached and settles back down. “He was nice, but he wasn’t you. I didn’t _want_ to break up, but it’s not like you stopped me either. You keep shutting yourself away and you don’t let anything show. I felt like I was on the outside looking in. It’s very easy to drift further and further apart like that.”

“I’m sorry.” He is. He knows he has this problem. Pride. “I hate losing control. I hate feeling vulnerable. I don’t want you to see the uglier sides of me.”

“You’ve seen all my ugly bits. They didn’t turn you away. I already know some of yours, some of the worst ones,” Eggsy points out, reaching out to tap at the scar on his left temple. “I’m still here. I’d rather be here than anywhere else in the whole world, minus those times when you can’t decide between being my lover or being my dad.”

Harry blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Like you still feel the need to replace that figure in my life.”

“I still feel guilty. I’ll always feel guilty.”

“And you’ll never feel like you’ve made adequate reparations. I know this about you. We can’t change the past,” Eggsy sighs.

“No, we can’t,” Harry agrees. “But we can keep going, future unwritten and all.”

“Yeah?” Eggsy’s eyes shine. “I want to move back in. Or rather, I want to move back all my stuff out of the attic.”

Harry stares at him, bewildered. “I thought you moved everything out.”

“No. I just hid everything up there because I couldn’t bear seeing them in the new flat. It would have been real that way.”

“You kept coming by to take more things.”

“Because we still got to keep fucking. I’m surprised you never noticed that I never actually walked out the door with anything in my hands.”

“I could never bear to watch you physically leave.” Harry rubs his eyes and sits back. “Merlin would say we’re a pair of idiots.”

“So would Rox. They ain’t wrong, but don’t tell them I said that.”

“This won’t be the end. We’ll have the same arguments stemming from the same misunderstandings. Look at the extremes we’ve resorted to just to get where we are now. It’s harder to change when you’re older. Sometimes I think I’m trapping you when I should be setting you free.”

“You’ve already set me free once, old man,” Eggsy says, climbing back into his lap, sliding his arms around Harry’s shoulders, curling his hands behind Harry’s neck. “Guess what? I came back.”

“So you did,” Harry admits, settling Eggsy’s weight on top of him, soaking in the warmth of his body, meeting his lips, opening his mouth to Eggsy’s, for how much he’s missed this.

 

_____

 

“You both are idiots,” Merlin tells him after the meeting where he has caught Harry and Eggsy not so discreetly playing footsie under the table, barely able to keep from grinning like loons, stupid with renewed affections. “I don’t think we’re supposed to hold this up as an example of what constitutes being emotionally healthy, stable, and mature.”

“With all due respect, Merlin,” Harry watches Eggsy talk to Lancelot, catches his eye, and feels a silly thrill when Eggsy gives him one of his quickfire winks. “I don’t think I care.”


	13. merhartwin - “There is nothing so annoying as to have two people go right on talking when you’re interrupting.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For litindecency's prompt: “There is nothing so annoying as to have two people go right on talking when you’re interrupting.” Merhartwin. Allusions to mmmmpreg but in the cracktastic sense. Please blame her + _Bridget Jones's Baby_ for this travesty.

“There is nothing so annoying as to have two people go right on talking when you’re interrupting,” Merlin mutters over the staccato play of back and forth bickering occurring right in front of him.  


Predictably, no one is listening to him. When do they ever?  


He sighs. He’s made a career out of appearing outwardly calm and unmovable, and he’s determined to not allow something of even this magnitude rattle him now. However, if one could tap into the internal voice of his thoughts, one would liken it to a record player needle stuck on one repeating refrain, high-pitched, grating: _WHAT. THE. FUCK._  


Because leave it to Galahad and Gawain to break up a massive human trafficking ring, uncover a treasure trove of stolen ancient artifacts, accidentally knock one of the mysterious small stone statues into their bag without notice, only to happen upon it when Merlin was in the room, and somehow, quite unwittingly—emphasis on _un_ and _wit—_ activate it.

And were either of them directly affected by said magical statue? _Of course not._  


Fast forward a few months and one unusually stubborn bout of flu later, they discover that said flu isn’t really the flu at all but _morning sickness_ and said harmless little stone artifact isn’t so harmless at all because it’s a _fertility statue._

_WHAT. THE. FUCK._

And that is how Merlin, real name: [REDACTED], age 52, and, don’t forget, very much _male_ in both biology and identification, came to be up the duff.

Look, Merlin understands he works for an organisation that very much seems to deal with the impossible on a daily basis. The gadgets and technology he and his team creates are the stuff of science fiction, and no one in the civilian world would believe for a second any of it could work much less existed on word alone. But things like magic and ancient fertility statues are very much firmly rooted in the genre of fantasy, and Merlin is a hardcore sci-fi nerd at heart. There’s nothing that angers him more than seeing the two genres conflated. It’s bad enough they are slashed together among modern mainstream taxonomies.

On the other hand, life apparently couldn’t give a flying fuck about any of this. It does whatever the fuck it wants, and it has decided that Merlin should get knocked up and that one of these two wankers barking at each other like little teacup chihuahuas is the father.  


Because…that’s the other thing. The problem with deciding to seriously pursue this strange, unconventional threesome relationship is that such potentially tricky dynamics require constant communication. It is therefore a terrible oversight on Merlin’s part that he has chosen to be in this situation with not one but two emotionally constipated, self-martyring idiots.

Oh, it’s all well and good when it comes to sex. Somehow, that all works out and everyone’s extremely generous. In this case, a little _too generous_ on the giving. But outside of the bedroom, there are still a few rough edges to be smoothed over.

Like the fact that Eggsy is secretly a helicopter mum when it comes to anything that has the faintest whiff of baby and, Merlin would wager, would have a large brood of them if his career and lifestyle choice had allowed for it.

And Harry? Well. Harry is vain, over-dramatic, and possessive to the point where he may not necessarily have an affinity for the thing itself, but god forbid anyone else should have it if he had any nominal prior claim, like a child who neglects a toy until someone else expresses interest in it.

“I just wanted a cup of tea,” Merlin says to the ether.

He just wanted to refresh his cup, which had led to an argument as to which potential _baby daddy_ (just the thought of that term alone causes him to break out into a sweat) would fetch it for him, which led to an argument about which type of tea Merlin should have, which let to an argument about the quality of brand, which led to an argument about whether or not Merlin should be having so much tea in the first place. (They will have to pry his cuppa from his cold, dead hands.)  


To think he may have to live with this for at least six more months. He wishes he had had the foresight to have shot them both with an amnesia dart upon learning of his most delicate position to have avoided this whole clusterfuck now.  


_WHAT. THE. FUCK._  



	14. hartwin - shiner - p. i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For aweekofsaturdays; “I will never apologize for saving your life, even if it costs me my own.” More angst.

_I will never apologize for saving your life, even if it costs me my own._  


Eggsy wakes up. It’s always painful, heart pounding in his chest like its going to explode, harsh reality flooding in, searing his world view, for a moment, in blazing slashes of white. It takes him a few precious moments to remember how to breathe, and then he’s sucking in oxygen noisily like a cancer-ridden smoker. In, out. In, out. Again.

Eventually, his heart will exhaust itself and the panic will gradually recede, leaving him wrung out and exhausted before he’s even left the bed.  


Just another day, then.

It’s cloudy again. The grey light leeches the contrast from the room, coating the sheets with a bluish sheen, the walls, his bare, mottled skin, even the rich burgundy of his dressing gown is churned into a dull brown.  


He rolls from prone position to his feet in one smooth, uninterrupted movement, presses his fingers to his temple to balance out the resultant dizziness, then sets forward. Toilet first, a piss, then a good long hard look at himself in the mirror.

There’s an almost pretty bouquet of purpling around his eye, the skin puffy and tender, swelling the lid so much that it looks like it’s been caught in the action of winking. He turns on the tap of one of the sinks, runs the water as icy cold as he can, and wets a flannel before pressing it gingerly to his face. It’s the best he can do for the swelling, but at least when it comes to foundation and concealer, he’s a fucking pro.

By the time he’s showered, shaved, hair parted and combed and then preserved with pomade, a crisp new shirt buttoned up and tucked into his trousers, a dab of cologne applied to the point of each collar, silk tie slid around his neck and knotted at his throat, he’s as perfectly assembled as he’ll ever get.

He always does one last sanity check before he leaves, after he’s let JB out for his business and refilled his food and water bowls, after he’s brushed Mr Pickle for dust, after he’s put the kettle on with whatever bags still remain in the dwindling cupboards, after he’s choked down two slices of toast and a glass of orange juice. The swelling has gone down some, only noticeable the longer one looks (Roxy will make a remark, Merlin too). He can’t help pressing a finger to the tender flesh, sinking into the dull ache that flares out across his face and makes his eyes water.

The vision of himself grows blurred. If he concentrates, he thinks he can see a face that isn’t his own.

 

_____

 

“Good morning, young Mr Hart!”

Eggsy slows his steps, turns his head, and smiles. Mrs Turner, from three doors down. Three cats. Widow. Nosy. Sensitive ears. Always used to complain about the noise when—“Good morning, Mrs Turner.”

“It’s been quiet, hasn’t it? I see you off to work every morning, but where’s your gentleman? Haven’t seen him around lately. It was always so nice, seeing you two walk out together.”

“He’s overseas for work,” Eggsy politely informs.

“He used to do that a lot,” Mrs Turner muses. “Stopped when you came into the picture. Didn’t think he’d be so keen to start that up again knowing what awaited him at home.”

“He usually doesn’t. Special circumstances, I’m afraid.”

“A shame, that. Oh, but do try to keep that dog of yours a little more quiet? I swear I was up half the night with the barking—”

“Of course, Mrs Turner. I apologise for JB. He takes his watchdog responsibilities a bit too seriously.”  


“Oh but he must be keep you up at all hours as well. You _do_ look rather tired….”

“Don’t hear a thing, actually. Good day, Mrs Turner,” Eggsy says, already walking away, one hand thrown back in a dismissive wave.  


 

_____

 

“Good morning, Kay,” Merlin says with a curt nod to Eggsy, launching into the meeting’s agenda before Eggsy’s even properly settled in his chair. “We received your update on the Ainsley case last night. Good work. There are, however, a few questions remaining.”

“Aren’t there always?” Eggsy mutters. “Alright.”

“Prior research has led us to believe that the most prized fighters are restricted in movement. Were you able to observe that this is true?”

He’s already shaking his head. “Unknown. I have yet to gain that level of trust. I’m still being put to the public matches, but I’m on good terms with the organiser. He likes me, I think.” At least, Eggsy can assume so if the way the man leered at him were any indication.  


“Alright,” Merlin says, ticking off something on his tablet. Christ, he _does_ have a bloody list. Of course he does. “Did you get to witness other rumoured activities in the vicinity?”  


“Some of the girls might’ve been trafficked.” Their faces were worn down like old shoes, inured to the bloodlust around them, but Eggsy is well familiar with many faces like that who simply had to live their everyday lives. “Hard to say for sure. Didn’t talk much. No minors though.”

“Did you get checked out by medical?”

“Of course,” he lies. “All clear.”  


“And the next one is…?”

He allows himself an anticipatory smile, recalling the scent of iron and sweat, the sting of salt in his eye and sprinkled across his knuckles, veins running hot, limbs trembling, aching to move. “Tonight.”

 

_____

 

A pool of blood gathers at the back of his throat, cloying and metallic. He likes to wait until he’s almost choking on it, hovering on the knife edge of the possibility, before spitting it out on the ground in a coagulated dark glob. It sits on the dirty cement like a dab of black paint. Idly, Eggsy scuffs it with the toe of his trainer so that the dim lighting can draw the red out of it before it dries to rusty brown.

“Unwin, you’re up next!”

He snorts back more blood and wipes beneath his nose with the back of his hand, rolling his shoulders to ease some of the tension coiled there. His skin feels hot and tight. A low ache hums beneath his skin, burrowing deeper in those places that promise to bruise.

He can barely stand still, the blood is rushing too fast in his veins, his senses too hyperaware of everything from the jeers and shouts of the crowd ringing in his ears to the smell of sweat, blood, and testosterone stinging his nostrils.

“Unwin, you’re up!” As soon as someone gives him the tap in, Eggsy comes out swinging.

Eggsy doesn’t need to know his opponent’s style, just that he’s an average sized, nominally athletic shape of a creature, so painfully new to this that he wears his inexperience like a poorly fitting suit, dancing warily at the edges of the edges of the circle as if looking for escape.

Eggsy catches his eye and gives him a bloody, feral grin.

Everyone says he has no patience, but what he lacks in strategy, he makes up for in sheer relentlessness, a mangy pitbull with steel jaws who clamps on and never lets go. He surges forward, feinting and then driving his knuckles into his opponent’s solar plexus, following with an uppercut, hook, and then a full on knockout in less than twenty seconds time to the roar of the crowd.

That should be it, he should walk away, but his thirst hasn’t been slaked. He follows the other man down, straddling him, driving his fists into tender skin and bone until three more men pull him off.

“Enough! ENOUGH!”

 _Demon_ , they call him.

 _The face of an angel_ , the organiser likes to croon, blowing smoke into his face, staring at him for too long.  


That’s okay. Like this, Eggsy doesn’t feel human half the time anyway. 

They shake him out at the back of the room, separating him from the others like a rabid animal. “Go cool down, for fuck’s sake. Last thing we need’s a death around here.”

Eggsy’s response falls somewhere between a growl and a sneer. He starts to prowl restlessly in the shadows, wanting more.

“You’re about to jump outta your skin, mate.”

He nearly turns and strikes out before realising it’s just the organiser. Eggsy doesn’t even know his real name. Matt, maybe. Mark? _Mikey_.

“You got something for me then?” he asks, trying not to gnash his teeth, but he feels shaky, an addict in need of a hit.

“Nah. You’re bad for business. Nobody wanna bet against you. You’re fucking bonkers.”

He makes a sound, something frustrated and sonorous, before spinning on his heel. “Fuck these cowardly cunts.”

Mikey remains quiet for a long time. The tip of his fag brightens and then shrinks. When he part his lips, it sticks to his lower lip. “Look, I feel you. I think I can help. This here’s just for rookies, you know? Meatheads looking to show off and the like. But we got…we got other matches going. The big leagues. Them types, they don’t fuck around though, yeah? Two men go in, only one comes out. The money’s a lot nicer though. Six figures. You live, you get a cut.”

“Yeah?” Eggsy asks, interested. “Yeah. I want that. I want in.”

“Alright. I’ll tell you when and where to show up…but first?” Mikey drops his fag to the ground and grinds it out with the toe of his boot before his hands move to his belt buckle. “C’mon, angel. I’ve been dreaming about those lips of yours.”

For Kingsman and country, Eggsy thinks, sinking down to his knees.  


 

_____

 

_I will never apologize for saving your life, even if it costs me my own._

Eggsy wakes up. His throat is sore. His bones too, for that matter.  


He feels a bit run down today. Might’ve overdone it. Too many fights in one week. Maybe too much enthusiasm.

He can’t find the motivation to get out of bed, so he lingers, heavy-bodied, practically feeling the indentation he makes in the mattress. He closes his eyes and by his side, his hand shifts just a little bit across the mattress. He imagines that, a millimetre more, he’d accidentally brush hands with another, so he doesn’t, just hovers on the possibility of fantasy.

Unexpectedly, his eyes prick with tears and a sob winds its way out of his swollen throat.

He hates that he can remember everything except that which is most crucial.

 

_____

 

“How long?”  


Eggsy shakes out two tablets of Vicodin and crunches them between his teeth, heedless of the way Merlin winces at the sight. “Next week. Said he’d try and get the brass to give me a slot. Big to do, very hush-hush. I think a lot of deals go down then.”

“Arms, drugs, humans, most likely,” Merlin dutifully lists. “We’ve not yet been able to penetrate the inner circle. Kay, if you get in, this will be the deepest we’ve been able to infiltrate the Ainsley ring.”

“How’s them contacts coming along?”

“Still a few kinks to be worked out,” Merlin says.

“But not ready in time for my next match?”

Merlin sighs, eyeing him warily. “Likely not.”

Eggsy glares at him. “What the fuck, Merlin. You said so yourself. We ain’t ever got this far. I can’t go in blind!”

“It’s highly unlikely they’ll decide to take you after the first—”

“But if they do? Then that’s me fucked!”

“You still have your GPS tracker—”

“That’s not enough. You want evidence, then I need the tech!”

“Calm down and be quiet,” Merlin warns, not so much as raising his intonation. It adequate serves to undercut his frustration, making him sit up straighter. “The situation is less than ideal, true, but timing isn’t on our side. I know you’re under a lot of stress right now, but we’ve got a job to do.”

Eggsy stares at his hands folded on the table in front of him.

“He was my best friend, you know.”

Eggsy looks up. “ _Was_ ,” he repeats flatly.  


“I’m a realist, Eggsy,” Merlin says like he truly regrets it.

Eggsy doesn’t have any empathy left. Doesn’t have much of _anything_ at all. “Here I’m told Kingsman agents believe six impossible things before breakfast.”

Merlin grimaces. “We’re still living topside yet.”

 

_____

 

_I will never apologize for saving your life, even if it costs me my own._  


Sometimes, he doesn’t immediately wake up after he hears it. It’s both better and worse. He can glean more details, dig a bit deeper, into the mystery still shrouded in his mind.

The details are always awful, though.

Harry looks at him ferociously, sadly, like a man about to march to the gallows. He’s very pale. Sweat beaded along his temple, darkening his hair until the curls stick to his forehead. He’s bleeding out from a lucky hit, a moment when a bullet had found an opening in his suit jacket as he turned. Had been for some time. Eggsy had tried his best to first stem the bleeding and then to get them both out, carrying most of Harry’s weight, too slow.

They are cornered on an overpass, traffic swiftly flowing beneath their feet, out-gunned and out-manned on either side. Harry isn’t so far gone as to not have calculated the odds.

_Eggsy, you have to leave me here._

_Fuck I will! We both go or we neither of us does.  
_

_I’m not going to last much longer. You have to complete the mission, get the drive back—_

_No, fuck that! You don’t get to decide to fucking martyr yourself just to save me, you wanker! How dare you think—  
_

Harry had grabbed him by the lapels in a surprising show of strength, perilously tipped Eggsy over the guard rail and nearly snarled in his face.

_I will never apologize for saving your life, even if it costs me my own._

It gets fuzzy after that. At that point in the dream, he’d usually snap awake, adrenaline pumping, the bitter taste of fear still sharp on his tongue.  


Tonight, he doesn’t.

Tonight, Harry releases him, and Eggsy is shoved back and finds nothing there.

He’s falling.

His stomach climbs into his throat, the air is stolen from his lungs. Harry grows smaller and further away, until he’s yanked back completely by the men who’ve swarmed him.  


The top of a canvas-backed lorry breaks his fall. He remembers feeling the rough fabric grate against his skin. His head sharply collides with the metal frame and then—

He wakes up, just as he has always done since that first time waking up in Kingsman’s medical ward, his body having been retrieved and transported back to London from a local hospital that the lorry driver must have taken him to, flash drive full of damning evidence safely delivered along with his personal effects.  


But Galahad doesn’t come back from that mission and no trace of him is ever found, no matter how hard Kingsman had looked.

It still grates on Eggsy that the mission is considered a success.  



	15. hartwin - “I love you. I’m completely and utterly in love with you. Please don’t get married.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: “I love you. I’m completely and utterly in love with you. Please don’t get married.” A brief return to humor. I'm a member of the Give Michelle A Happy Ending! squad.

“I love you. I’m completely and utterly in love with you. Please don’t get married.”

The ensuing silence is unbearable.

Harry is not in the habit of putting all his cards down at once. The deliberate sense of vulnerability the act entails is intolerable. But when he came back from a half-year long deep undercover mission, it was to a dour-faced Merlin flashing a wedding invitation with today’s date in front of his face. Harry caught the enlarged scripted _Unwin_ and _HRH The Crown Princess of Sweden_ , soberly listened to Merlin’s grim, “Will you forever hold your peace?” and realised he simply couldn’t stand back and allow it to happen, not without a fight, or at least, not without Eggsy knowing the truth.

It’s letting Eggsy make an informed decision, Harry would argue, but in reality he knows it’s the last pathetic act of a desperate man.  


Now, he feels like he’s dying slowly, able to sense the shutdown of every cell in his body, but all he can do is stand there, bloody heart on sleeve, stewing in his own words.  


Finally, Eggsy has the gall to look at him like he’s grown another head. “Er, I’m not?”

Harry’s going to _kill_ Merlin.

“But, hey, it’s nice of you to show up? You never RSVP’d,” Eggsy accuses.

Harry tries to make sense of it. “You’re wearing….”

“Wha, this?” Eggsy looks down at himself. “Yeah, got an honourary appointment so I could look good walking me mum down the aisle. Weird, right?”

“Your mother.” Harry swallows and closes his eyes, only to have them fly open in disbelief a moment later. “…is marrying Tilde?”

“It’s…it’s a long, cringe-inducing story.” An understandably haunted look roves over Eggsy’s gaze. Harry imagines he thinks there aren’t many people who can say they’ve had intimate relations with their step-mother, but Eggsy would be surprised. Not that Harry thinks informing him of that fact would make him feel any better.

Resilient thing that he is, however, Eggsy’s expression clears up and he returns to his seemingly natural sunny disposition. “But long story short, mum’s real happy. Kinda was through with men, you know? And Daisy gets to be a princess for real now, sorta.”

“I see.” Harry adjusts his glasses. His cheeks may still be flaming, but he still comports himself with as much dignity left to him as possible. “Well. Seeing as how I _didn’t_ RSVP, I guess, er, I had best be going.”

“But, you know…” Eggsy says just as Harry starts to walk away in humiliation. “I’m sorta head over heels gone for you too, in case you was wondering.”

Harry pauses and turns back to him, not sure if he’s relieved or outraged. “You could have led with that.”

Eggsy slowly smiles. “But for the look on your face.”

Trying to reclaim the tattered remains of his pride by sauntering back up to Eggsy, Harry slips an arm around his finely sashed waist and pulls Eggsy closer. “In that case, do I need to clear it with your new security detail if I’d like to take you out to dinner?”

“Seeing as how I am my own security detail, I’ll allow it,” Eggsy magnaminously says, but easily sways into him, which goes far in returning much of Harry’s confidence.  


“Good,” Harry says, leaning in for a kiss only to be met with Eggsy’s finger pressed against his lips.  


“But first we have a wedding to attend.”

Harry stares down at his wrinkled suit, torn up in three places, dots of dried blood on his cuffs. “I’m not entirely sure….”

“You look fi…” Now that Eggsy has the chance to fully study him, he hesitates. “…did you literally just come off your mission?”

“Time was of essence,” Harry staunchly defends. “I thought. Mistakenly.”

He’ll strangle Merlin, he decides. Switch out his tea for kombucha. Superglue a hideous toupee to his scalp when he’s asleep.

“My dashing prince come to sweep me off my feet and carry me away,” Eggsy teases.

“Oh do shut up.”

This time when he leans forward for a kiss, Eggsy meets him eagerly.  



	16. hartwin - “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. That’s the problem.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For AnnaofAza and the prompt, "I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. That’s the problem."
> 
> A continuation of [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7254013/chapters/18230320) prior snippet.
> 
> Explicit Sexy Times here!

“Found him in the office. This tosser’s wiped the entire system!”

Eggsy, sans Kingsman glasses that must have gotten lost in whatever scuffle that had previously ensued to get him here now, is given an unceremonious shove forward. He staggers a few steps, barely able to right himself before he’s roughly forced down onto his knees in front of Harry, a gun digging into the back of his skull in warning.  


Harry’s almost embarrassed by the excessive show of brutish force, but he also knows very well that had Eggsy been so inclined, he could have killed all five of his men in under thirty seconds, which meant Eggsy wanted to be led right to him, and of course his men had helpfully obliged.  


It would seem that no good deed goes unpunished, and Harry Hart’s merciful streak has come to bite him in the arse yet again.

If he thought Eggsy would stay away after being expressly told to, a message underscored with a bullet to the chest, then Harry had apparently severely misjudged Eggsy’s sheer bloody mindedness. After a scant six weeks of physical recovery (Harry knows Eggsy must have pushed himself far before he was ready), Eggsy had been dogging his heels across the globe ever since. At first, he’d arrive hours after Harry had fled the scene, damage done, but it was a gap that steadily and vexingly grew narrower.  Soon, it became too close for comfort.

Today, it appears he’d been beaten to the punch entirely, and for a job with an employer who had rather exacting standards and severe punishments.  


Fuck.

“What are we gonna do?” Fairchild asks. “We need that passcode, Hart! You know our employer—”

“Do continue bleating the obvious.” Harry sighs, feeling the first stirrings of a migraine feather out from his temples along with something he hasn’t felt in a long time, not since before he committed himself on this one-way road to hell: frustration, doubt.

From his prostrate position, Eggsy merely smirks up at him before saying, “I’ve memorised it.”

All eyes in the room are now on him.

“What?” Fairchild asks belatedly. Then again, Harry hadn’t hired him for his quick thinking.  


“The passcode. I memorised it before I cleaned everything. I’m the only one in the world now who knows how to access them Swiss accounts you got your eyes on.”  


And Harry? Harry strives a little harder for calm. “We don’t have time for this, Eggsy. Give us the passcode, and we’ll be on our merry way.”

“Hmm…” Eggsy pretends to consider it, even pursing his lips in thought before shrugging his shoulders. “Nah, I’m good, bruv.”  


“Why do you insist on making things harder for yourself?” Harry growls.

“Don’t you know, Haz? This here’s my sweet spot,” Eggsy says, giving him a smug grin.  


“Fuck this bollocks!” Fairchild shouts, shoving his gun harder into Eggsy’s skull. “You tell us the passcode _right now_ or I’ll blow your fucking brains out, you hear me?”

“Go ahead,” Eggsy grinds out, not breaking his gaze from Harry’s. “Then you’ll never get what you want. Don’t think the man who hired you would be too happy about your failure. Hear he’s a bit of a hardass. Tends to do some creatively gruesome things to those who don’t live up to expectations, innit?”

Eggsy’s perfectly right, of course. Getting into bed with Zhao had been a bit of a gamble given the man’s reputation, but then, no risk, no reward.

Now, however, they’ve arrived at an impasse with a closing window until security arrived, on top of it all. As the seconds tick by, so too do his options.

Finally, Harry steps forward and pinches Eggsy’s jaw to force his face up. Still so very beautiful, more so when there’s that spark of fury flashing across his changeable eyes. He can’t help thumbing across Eggsy’s plush lower lip, collecting a thrilling hint of moisture at the pass. “It seems you’ve just made yourself extremely indispensable to us,” he tells Eggsy. “You might come to regret that. Get him in the car. We’ve got to go. _Now_.”

He turns and strides away, moving quickly towards the exit, keeping an eye out for any early arrivals. It doesn’t even matter at this point whether Eggsy decides to dispose of his hired help or not: they’ve long since outlived their usefulness given the fruitlessness of tonight’s endeavours, and Eggsy has already shown how keen he is to stay on Harry. He won’t run away now.

Which, as Harry climbs into the back of their van, poses a concern of its own. He waits until his men catch up to him, Eggsy marched in front of them with guns steadily trained on him at all times. Not like they would do much good with his Kingsman-issued suit.

Once the doors are slammed shut and Menendez stars up the engine, Harry gives a suspiciously complacent Eggsy a long, scrutinising look. “Please don’t get the wrong idea, Eggsy, but I must insist you strip yourself of your clothing now. I’m not quite prepared to roll out the red carpet for a host of Kingsman agents at my front door.”

“Sure,” Eggsy says amenably.  


“Wha?” Fairchild pipes up. “We checked him over already!”

Must his orders always be questioned? In lieu of giving in to the temptation of simply tossing Fairchild from the moving vehicle, Harry ignores him entirely, focusing on Eggsy, waving his gun a little to indicate Eggsy should begin.

If Eggsy is at all nervous about shedding his kit, he certainly doesn’t show it. He gives Harry a patient look, corners of his mouth slightly turned up as if he were simply indulging Harry for his own amusement, and stands up, spreading his legs wide to account for the unstable floor of the moving van.

First to be removed are those lovely, dangerous accessories, Kingsman’s ring, watch, lighter, cuff links. Then the tie, one strip pulled loose from the knot, the whole silk band pulled out from beneath his collar. Jacket unbuttoned, shrugged off, carefully folded and held out for Harry and only Harry to take (he does, unable to help running his callused fingers over the fine material in a brief stab of nostalgia). Shirt pulled out from where it’s been tucked into the waistband of his trousers, then unbuttoned perfunctorily as if entirely immune to the enticing display of smooth, pale skin and breathtakingly sculpted abdominal muscles he reveals.

The other men in the van look discomfited, but Harry’s gaze never wavers, remaining rapt upon Eggsy as he toes off his oxfords, using the side of the van for balance when the vehicle makes a particularly sharp turn, then unbuckles his belt and then pushes his trousers past his hips to pool at his ankles. Eggsy wears black boxer briefs that cinch at his thick thighs. He’s half hard in an eye-catching convex curve at the fabric, and isn’t an ounce self-conscious about it.

There’s a fresh pink starburst scar puckering his chest, just a hair’s breath to the left of his heart.  


Harry kick’s Eggsy’s clothes over to his men with one sweep of his leg. “Scan them for trackers.”

“Had your fill?” Eggsy arches a brow, but there’s a tension thrumming through his frame as Harry’s eyes lazily roam down his body.

“Nothing. I’m getting nothing,” Smith reports after running the scanner through all of Eggsy’s clothes.

But Harry doesn’t trust Eggsy’s lack of reaction. On a hunch, he holds out his hand for the wand and Smith hands it over. When he turns it to Eggsy’s body, the screen practically lights up like Christmas, just about everywhere.

“Holy fuck,” Smith quite aptly puts it.

“Valentine’s tech,” Eggsy explains. “You must remember him well. He slipped trackers into your wine when you had dinner with him. That’s how he tracked you back to the shop. How he got to King.”

Eggsy studies him, narrow-eyed, drinking in his minute reactions. He knows Eggsy is only invoking those names to rile him, but even being aware of that fact doesn’t change the reflexive anger that flares up, the bile that suddenly floods the back of his throat.

“Puts you in a bit of a bind, don’t it?” Eggsy asks rhetorically. “Can’t let me outta your sights, but don’t wanna draw Kingsman to your location.”  


“Clever,” Harry admits while trying not to grit his teeth. Still, he gamely soldiers on. “Ingested trackers have limited lifespans. Twenty-four to forty-eight hours at most. We’ll simply have to wait it out, somewhere where even Merlin’s all-seeing eye can’t reach. In the mean time…” He pulls out a sealed bottle of water from his sack. “…you’ll be drinking several of these to hurry things along.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll hold you down, pry your mouth open, and pour it down your throat,” Harry replies.  


Eggsy finishes two bottles and is allowed to put on the bare minimum of his clothing to meet basic decency (Harry makes one of his men give up his boots as he’d rather not arm Eggsy with a toxin-laced switchblade if he can help it), Harry directs the van to drop Eggsy and him off on King William Street. From there, it’s merely a touch of illicit breaking in from Monument to the abandoned tunnels that exist deep below the surface of the city where any hope for a signal would be in vain.

The mothballed station smells of mildew and stale dust, alien and amorphous beneath the wan light from Harry’s torch. Eggsy stumbles in his slightly too big boots, catches himself on a slick exposed pipe, then curls his lip in disgust and wipes his palm down upon his trousers.

“Keep walking,” Harry urges, coaxing Eggsy deeper into the tunnels. “We can avoid all this, you know, if you simply tell us the passcode now.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Eggsy says breezily. “I enjoy a bit of adventure.”

Silence descends for a time after that with nothing but the sounds of their feet smacking against cement, water dripping, the curious tweaks of rodents, and the occasional rumble of cars and real trains above.  


“Do you intend on us walking about for the full twenty four?” Eggsy finally asks.

“We walk until I am satisfied we’re deeply entrenched enough in the tunnels that Kingsman won’t find us should they come looking.”

“You’re going to get us lost in here.”

“We’ll eventually be spat up somewhere.”

“And then?”

“And then,” Harry sighs, rubbing at his brow. The headache has yet to go away, building pressure in his skull. “We’ll have to compromise. You have something I want, Eggsy. So the question has now become, what is it that you want in return for it?”  


“I want you to turn yourself in to Kingsman.”  


In the safety of the dark, Harry rolls his eyes. “Even if I were so inclined to entertain such a foolish notion, you’re proposing something that, in a best care scenario, would mean life imprisonment in a windowless cell somewhere that won’t exist on any map, and at worst, a less than pleasant interrogation followed swiftly by execution.”

“If you were cooperative, forthcoming with intel—”

“I’d buy myself six more months of tasteless prison rations and interminable tedium before my intel gets outdated and then I’ll be lucky if they don’t sweep up my cremated ashes afterwards and bin them.”

“You were a highly valued agent,” Eggsy insists. “You still have friends. That’s still gotta count for something.”

“If I were Arthur, I’d have me executed too,” Harry says flatly.  


No reply is immediately forthcoming. The unspoken words are there, Harry thinks, that he’s certainly made his bed, but Eggsy doesn’t even draw close to implying as much. He’s been betrayed in the worst way and still, _still_ , there’s a hopefulness clinging to his voice, a dog kicked one too many times who still hesitantly tries to curl up at his feet anyway.

“There’s a reason why Kingsman requires its recruits to shoot their dogs. Orders must supersede all feelings and prior existing loyalties,” Harry says. “It’s a brutal world out there, Eggsy. There’s no room for softness in this game.”

“Then maybe you picked the wrong candidate after all,” Eggsy says.

 

_____

 

“Why didn’t you come back to Kingsman after?”

The question comes after several more hours of walkabout, two piss breaks, and several hours of uneasy snatches of sleep in another ghostly station that Harry can’t readily identify, this one with crumbling infrastructure that smacks of World War II retrofitting.

Fatigue is catching up with him. He’d already been up for 36 hours prior to what was supposed to have been a flawless operation, and now he’s got to remain up and standing for possibly another 24 hours more. In all honesty, Eggsy doesn’t look that much better, pale, feet dragging, the bags under his eyes darkened and more prominent. “Thirty-something years of loyalty and unwavering dedication to a cause earns me a shot in the head. Call it a crisis of faith.”

He holds out another unopened water bottle for Eggsy to drink.  


Eggsy snorts. “And you think I’m naive,” He glares at the bottle, but grudgingly takes it when Harry levels him with a look.

“Naivete and loyalty aren’t the same thing. I wanted you to be a part of Kingsman so you would have the opportunity to work for something greater than yourself. It’s edifying.”

“Yeah? How do you think it feels then when the big boss turns out to be a traitor, has the man you—your mentor killed, only for said mentor to return from the dead and, what do you know, turns out to be a traitor who almost kills you too?” Eggsy viciously twists off the bottle cap and drains half the bottle in three large gulps, the plastic cracking in the crush of his grip. “Sorry if I’m not being a team player right now. Guess I’m a little wanting for role models.”

“If it helps any, know that this isn’t what I had intended for you. Or me, for that matter. I miss my home. My creature comforts. I do hope you’re taking good care of them.”

Eggsy laughs bitterly and shakes his head before leaning back against a stripped wall. “I had these fantasies. Stupid ones that I knew wouldn’t happen but they helped me cope.”

Harry inclines his head.

“Just us, yeah? Living together. Being bad ass spies together. Killing bad guys by day, arguing about whose turn it was to pick the film to watch by night. It was nice. Made the bed feel not so big anymore. It’s a nice bed, by the way. I’ve taken over your side. Tried finishing _1Q84_ you had dog-eared, but it was too fucking weird.”

Harry has lived alone for too long not to know the realities of the situation would have been less than ideal. Different standards of cleanliness. Annoying personal habits. An overall diminished sense of privacy.

But then he thinks about weekend lie-ins with the sun streaming down on Eggsy’s pale skin. Walking side by side with him at the grocery. Sliding his arms around Eggsy’s waist from behind with free affection. Kissing Eggsy. Fucking him slowly on that nice bed of his. Fighting next to him during missions, styles complimenting each other perfectly.

It’s a lovely fantasy. Harry can’t deny he isn’t taken with it himself.  


“I would have gone with you,” Eggsy whispers tightly, like the words are too painful to speak aloud. The torch catches the glimmer in his eyes. “I was ready to go with you. I just wanted…I just wanted to be with you, maybe more than anything.”

And that had been the sort of unhealthy co-dependency Harry wished to avoid. Eggsy was _starving_ for a chance to prove himself. For approval. For a father figure. For love, he so easily anchored himself to anyone who tossed him a scrap of kindness. It was difficult to resist that generous spirit and effusive light that was a draw for dark creatures such as Harry himself.

Harry had so badly wanted to take Eggsy with him, to keep him. Ruin him.

“You can still help me,” he says encouragingly. “The passcode, Eggsy.”

The boy practically recoils, snarling defiance like he had all those months ago in a grotty pub in South London. “You can always try torture, but you should know better than anyone, Haz. I keep my mouth shut.”

Another impasse. He doesn’t know whether he wants to bang his head against the wall or Eggsy’s.  


His watch starts beeping, a loud insistent tone that leaves echoes of its interruption long after Harry silences it. “That’s hour twenty four,” he says. “Shall we see where we’re at?”  


 

_____

 

When his teeth sink into Eggsy’s sweat-sheened throat, it produces the most alluring note to his cry, something caught within the crossroads of pain, surprise, and pleasure, winding down into an uninhibited moan when Harry licks at the deep indentations and shoves his hips up sharply to drive his cock into the tight clutch of Eggsy’s overheated body.

His feet plant themselves firmly into the questionably clean carpet of their little motel room. The mattress is flimsily springy enough to aide his thrusts upwards into Eggsy’s arse because Eggsy is far too gone to provide much momentum himself, bouncing like a trembling ragdoll in Harry’s lap, pliant to every lick, bite, and suck at his flesh, every none-too-gentle plowing of Harry’s cock.  


His old self would have been appalled: fucking his protege, unfairly taking advantage of the hero-worship and devotion from a boy over two decades younger than him, the son of a man to whom he owed his life.  


But his new lease on life is stripped of a few moral qualms here, some proprieties there. He wants. He takes.

After all, tomorrow, he could get shot in the face.  


He strains lower to swipe his tongue over the raised rough edges of the scar he put on Eggsy’s body, causing Eggsy to tense, breath hitching. “You still let me do this to you,” he rasps in wonder, scraping his teeth across the scar, then wetting it with a spit-slicked thumb, “Even after what I’ve done.”

Eggsy makes a noise somewhere low in his throat and suddenly becomes animated, pressing forward to kiss Harry hungrily, swallowing the rest of his words, grinding his hips down onto his cock and emitting a wounded noise that Harry feels the vibrations of in his bones.

It’s too good to last. Harry feels the buildup of his climax pooling in his groin, pinches Eggsy’s hips hard enough to bruise in order to shove up as much of his dick into him as possible and lets it go, coming in Eggsy’s arse with a groan and a nip of a tempting nipple within biting distance.

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” Eggsy intones mindlessly, the first thing he becomes aware of when he recovers a semblance of his wits. Eggsy’s cock is still hard against his stomach, dragging copious amounts of precome across his skin with each frantic, desperate shift of his hips. “Please, please, come on.”

He forms a loose grip around Eggsy’s pretty cock, stroking it too lightly to do much more than tease. “Eggsy.” And in response, Eggsy quakes, fingers digging deeper into the meat of Harry’s shoulders. “You did…you did suggest I torture it out of you….”

A peek of blue green irises nearly edged out with blown black pupils is revealed when Eggsy opens his eyes and looks dazedly at Harry. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Harry laughs and twists his body, sending Eggsy down hard upon the bed and slotting between the V of his legs, his softened cock slipping out in the messy drip of his own leaking come. Before Eggsy can further complain, Harry travels down his body, making no pretense about slipping his lips over the head of Eggsy’s cock and tonguing at the slit before Eggsy impatiently thrusts up and pushes more of it into his waiting mouth.

From there, it’s a matter of letting Eggsy fuck hard and fast into his mouth, a hand reaching down to take a firm hold of his hair to drag Harry’s nose down to the nestle of coarse curls. Harry can’t resist the temptation of slipping two fingers into his messy, loose hole, causing Eggsy to yelp and thrust up suddenly, pushing the head of his cock up Harry’s into throat, inciting a flutter of muscles.

A few firm strokes of his fingers and some particularly enthusiastic suction, and Eggsy’s legs tighten around him as his bitter come floods the back of Harry’s tongue in long, jagged spurts.

In the languid aftermath when they are both trying to catch their breaths, Harry dares to ask, “…will you ever tell me?”

Eggsy remains quiet for several long, worrying moments before simply answering, “Nope.”

Harry turns to look at him sharply.

But Eggsy continues, “Because I don’t actually have it.” And at Harry’s stunned silence, he turns his head and meets Harry’s eyes with something decidedly impish to his tone. “The thing was like fifty characters long. I sure as fuck didn’t memorise it in the ten seconds I had to wipe the drives clean before your dogs attacked. Just sent it all off to Merlin. You want it, you gotta get it from him.”

“You little fucking shit,” Harry says matter-of-factly before turning to regard the stained popcorn ceiling, marvelling at this puckish creature laid out beside him and the world of shit Eggsy’s just brought down on his life. “You’ve just painted a target on my back, you know.”

Eggsy rolls onto his side, resting his head in his hand. “You shot me in the fucking heart, bruv.“

“Only the near vicinity.”

“That’s why you get about a one minute warning before Kingsman busts down that front door.”  


Harry tenses. Tries to think of _when_ Eggsy had the chance to….

“You must really hate me.”  


“I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. That’s the problem.” Eggsy quirks a brow. “I suggest the loo window.”

His choices have been rapidly dwindling ever since Eggsy reappeared in his life, and now with absolutely none left to him but the one fed from Eggsy's hand, Harry has to take it: he ignominiously flees, hastily grabbed clothes balled up under his arms, the weight of Eggsy’s ruthless satisfaction a heated brand upon his mind.  



	17. hartwin + michelle - "Of all the people I could’ve gotten stuck in an elevator lift with and it just had to be you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: “Of all the people I could’ve gotten stuck in an elevator lift with and it just had to be you.”

In the incredulous silence that follows in the wake of the sudden groan of the lift’s gears coming to a shuddering, then jerking, halt, Michelle Unwin says, “Of all the people I could’ve gotten stuck in a lift with and it just had to be you.”  


Harry can’t really blame her. He himself would have preferred the company of the KGB spy who once managed to slice a butterfly knife through the tendons along the back of his right knee during close combat. At least in that situation, he would have known what to do.

As it would happen, the only answer that occurs to him now is to break out into a cold sweat of terror, silently curse himself for agreeing to an op that took place in the same hotel that Michelle worked in while she went back to school, and avoid meeting her accusing blue eyes, as if it were his fault that led them to their current circumstances: trapped in a lift with the widow of the man he got killed and the mother of the man he was currently fucking. He’s had better days, such as that time he was trapped in an avalanche in the French Alps.

“Please believe me, Mrs Unwin, when I say that this is not how I imagined my day going either.”  


_In position, awaiting arrival of the pack—oh fuck me, why are you talking to me mum?_  Eggsy practically screeches in his ear over his glasses.

Harry can’t answer him. Can’t in fact, do much of anything useful (such as climbing up through the lift’s ceiling hatch and scaling up the shaft to the next level, which he normally would do if he had been alone) as he’s only supposed to be a middle-aged, mild-mannered tailor with perhaps a taste for men far too young for him.

Michelle, at least, is not one to quietly accept her fate: she immediately presses the emergency call button but after thirty seconds of no answer, she pounds the metal panel with her fist in frustration and leans back against the wall. Not that there’s much room to move about in. Her maid’s cart easily takes up half the space, lending a nice feeling of claustrophobia to the situation as well.

Harry opens and closes his mouth several times before saying, “Perhaps if you just—”  


“Not a single word,” Michelle says icily. Harry closes his mouth.  


_Oh my god, oh my god_ , Eggsy keeps muttering. _Can’t you just…get out of there? Target will arrive any moment now, and you’re talking to my mum. My mum!  
_

“Seeing as how we’re trapped in this lift without any hope of escape in the near term,” Harry says for Eggsy’s benefit, even though it earns him a strange look from Michelle. Except, he hasn’t quite thought all the way through what he should say next. “…uh.”

“We should try and work out our differences?” Michelle sarcastically finishes for him.

“ _No_. I only meant that we can maintain a perfectly civil silence until we’re rescued,” Harry hastily says, fiddling with his watch.

 _If you dart me mum, I will never shag you again, do you hear me, Harry?_ Eggsy threatens.

Harry drops his hands to his side and huffs in frustration.

“ _Perfectly civil silence_ , he says,” Michelle sneers, sounding disconcertingly like Eggsy when she wants. “There’s nothing civil about you, Mr Hart. Not many savoury types can say they met their boyfriend when he were age seven.”

 _Merlin’s called the fire brigade_ , Eggsy says. There’s a thin note of panic in his voice.

“Er, no, but I was most certainly not attracted to Eggsy at that age,” Harry says and barely manages to keep from cringing as Michelle’s eyes widen.  


_Oh fucking hell._ Harry can perfectly envision the face Eggsy is making. It’s the one where his features scrunch up, nose closing the gap to his eyes, which have thinned into glittering slits, teeth slightly bared. _Look, just repeat after me, okay?_ Eggsy tells him.

And Harry can’t verbally give his assent, so he tries to dip his head in a nod once, making it seem more like a facial tick to anyone present.

 _Look_ , Eggsy begins, _you may not like me_.

“Look,” Harry dutifully repeats. “You may not like me.”

_But your son has chosen to have me in his life._

“But your son has chosen to have me in his life.”

_He also loves you very much._

“He also loves you very much.”

_And he would like nothing more than the two greatest loves of his life to at least work towards some sort of peace with each other._

Harry can’t help the fond smile that touches his lips as he speaks the words aloud.  


For her part, Michelle doesn’t outright reject his words, which Harry will count as a win. She studies Harry intently, examining him thoroughly for all his many flaws, seen and unseen. “I just don’t get it,” she says, though at least she’s lost the frosty hostility. “Why you? Why did Eggsy choose you?”

_Because I’m GQ as fuck and got a big cock._

“Because I’m G—” Harry automatically starts to say before his jaw snaps shut with an audible click. He sends Eggsy a mental wave of immense disapproval. “That’s something you’ll have to ask him. All I can tell you is that I’m grateful and often ask myself that question every day.”

 _Because you saw something in me no one else did_ , Eggsy says to him softly. _Because you helped me to become a better man._

Michelle sighs heavily and her shoulders sink in resignation. “Guess you’re right. Guess I can… _try_ …to be lil’ nicer. For Eggsy’s sake.”

 _Yesssssss_.  


“Thank you,” Harry tells her. “I know I don’t deserve it, but I will do everything in my power to make your son as happy as he makes me.”

After a long moment of hesitation, Michelle finally says, “You should come round Sunday for the roast, then, yeah? Have dinner like a family should do.”

The word _family_ catches him off-guard, deer caught in the headlights fashion. It’s been a long time since Harry any semblance of the word, and to hear it now, to hear it in relation to _him_ …. He swallows down an unexpected lump in his throat. “I’d be honoured. Thank you.”

_I’m so proud of you, babe. You survived, and earned a seat at the table, besides. I love you, you know. And our target’s arrived so I’m gonna go secure the package while the firemen get to put their beefy hands all over your lithe body._

Harry grits his teeth, and when Michelle looks at him oddly again, he tries to turn it into a rictus of a smile.  


After that, the atmosphere is a little bit less tense, even if it isn’t wholly without lingering awkwardness, and it doesn’t last for very much longer besides: the firemen arrive not more than five minutes later and soon both Michelle and Harry and rescued from the lift.

(Regrettably, by having to be hoisted up through the lift’s ceiling hatch and then to the floor above, and yes, Harry had to let himself be helplessly lifted up, and hands were laid upon his body in order to do so, and no, he is never, ever telling Eggsy.)  



	18. mark darcy/eggsy - done in (mark darcy/eggsy unwin; bridget jones/kingsman crossover)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark Darcy/Eggsy Unwin. Takes place before and during _Bridget Jones's Baby_ , so be warned for mild-ish spoilers.
> 
> Also: I am terrible at crossovers.

The first time Mark meets the boy who’s just about half his age, he’s…well. He’s lonely and drunk enough to not only entertain the notion but follow through.  


p>For a supposed eligible bachelor, he’s had plenty of experience with breakups and endings by now, but _this one_ had hit particularly hard. For once, it isn’t a case of a cheating wife or the mutual and gradual loss of passion or the simple, mundane realisation of a lack of genuine chemistry.

It’s him. It’s all him.  


_Even when you’re here, I still feel alone._ The words keep running through his head like a continuous announcement of his failings.  


The worst part, as he sees to the bottom of his third (Fourth? Sixth?) double scotch, is that Bridget hadn’t even been wrong. He wishes he could say that he had vowed to change there and then, to take a step back from his work, to learn the true priorities of life.

But he hadn’t. Couldn’t. So he let her—them—go.  


How one person had filled so much space in his life, Mark didn’t know, but without Bridget’s easy smile or constant stream of chatter, the rooms of his overly large Richmond house had felt emptier and he couldn’t bare to spend another night within them. Maybe it’s cowardly to hole one’s self away in a hotel for a few days, surrounding one’s self by perfect transient strangers, letting one’s self vanish into anonymity. He just needs a moment. Just a moment to take stock of where his chips have fallen, to see what can be salvaged, what he must draw lines under.

“You look like you gone and got your heart broken, mate.”  


This is how he meets the strange boy who calls himself Eggsy. Eggsy who wears clothes that, at first glance, would not get him kicked out of the hotel, but to Mark’s trained eye, are fairly secondhand, somewhat ill-fitting.

“That’s because I’ve gone and have,” Mark tells him, carefully averting his gaze to Eggsy’s contrite embarrassment.

“Sorry.” Eggsy rallies soon enough, though, and says, “How about some company then?”

Eggsy is crude, surprisingly witty, very funny, and undeniably beautiful, but more importantly, is in possession of the crackling sort of energy Mark has always been drawn to, that he himself lacks.

When Eggsy makes the unsubtle suggestion they ought to move the conversation up to Mark’s room, it only belatedly occurs to Mark as to what this may be misconstrued as. “I…er…don’t buy….”

To be fair, he doesn’t make a habit of wallowing in hotel bars.

Fortunately, Eggsy isn’t offended so much as amused. “I ain’t selling, bruv. I come here to fish in a different pond every once in awhile.”

Mark hasn’t kissed or gone much further with many men, not so much out of fear as an overall lack of attraction. Sometimes, though, there are people like Eggsy whose very souls seem to shine bright in their eyes and can command his attention and interest with a flicker of a grin, teeth scraped over a berry lush lower lip, a long sweep of eyelashes, or a surprisingly elegant jaw line.

Eggsy is smaller than him but hardly delicate. He bows easily between the palms Mark splays against the wall on either side of his head as soon as they enter the hotel room. His mouth is eager, his body warm, his hands clever in getting into Mark’s trousers with nary an inch between their bodies, and it feels nice to be wanted by someone.

Eggsy plays his part well: some lazy frottage against the wall, a handjob traded for some truly talented head, a shared nightcap, shower, falling asleep to Chatty Man for some godforsaken reason, and by morning, he is gone without a trace.

As far as one night stands go, which Mark doesn’t partake in all too often, it isn’t one he can bring himself to regret.

So imagine his immense surprise when, some six-plus years and another impending divorce later, he’s sitting at the local of his much hipper-than-him Angel neighbourhood, drinking too much again, wondering how two people can be so right and so very wrong for each other, and there Eggsy is.

Mark doesn’t know what is actually more the surprise: that fate would bring them together a second time at yet another low point in his life or that Mark would even recognise him at all.

Though half a decade (and with it, many long, stressful days of work that frequently became long, stressful nights) had wrought its changes upon him (more grey, more wrinkles, more bitterness), it appears to have done Eggsy a world of good. The suit he now wears tastefully hints at Savile Row, his back is straighter, his whole bearing is now so very…confident, well-bred. If those eyes, jaw, and mouth weren’t so distinctive, Mark would have wondered if this were even the same man.

For all his unexpected sophistication, this time, however, it seems as if it’s Eggsy who’s gone and had his heart broken (Mark, of course, has gotten so used to his that he doesn’t think it even shows very much on his hangdog face anymore).

“So who’s gone and done you in?” Mark asks, finally drawing Eggsy’s attention, who actually does a double take.  


It’s a strange play of emotions—shock, _joy_ , realisation, disappointment, devastation—that happens in less than a second, all within Eggsy’s green eyes now masked by thick, dark glasses, finally settling into, Mark understands, a more carefree persona for the evening. “Just…someone who had meant a lot to me. Hadn’t known him long, but he made an impact.” Then his keen gaze turns and studies Mark. “And you?”

“Same story as before,” Mark says, too weary to even feel embarrassed by that fact. “Different chapter, it seems.”  


“Some books are hard to put down,” Eggsy commiserates, then comes to a decision. “Want some company?”  


“My place is around the corner,” Mark says.  


It goes against every instinct to invite a hookup back to the inner sanctum of his home where Eggsy could glean from him all he could ever want to know (and probably much more than he would want): Mark’s profession from the law books on his shelves, his work addiction from all the papers and folders strewn across nearly every flat surface, his loneliness from the sheer number of empty glass tumblers absentmindedly strewn about.

But whatever pathetic state of affairs Eggsy divines from his life, it doesn’t seem to bother him overly much as he crowds in close, circles his hands around Mark’s waist, and skirts the tip of his nose across Mark’s throat, tipping his face up so that Mark can feel his rapt gaze, shiver at the sharp scrape of teeth at his jaw, stir at the anticipatory grin.

It still feels nice to be wanted by someone.

After, they eat kabobs and pickles with bottles of Saison amidst a sea of all Mark’s legal briefs, and then later, Mark turns down the covers for them, and for some reason, Eggsy stays.

In the dark quiet of the bedroom where they are both still awake, Mark says, “I thought…I was going to get my family back.”

Eggsy rolls over to face him, pressing his body all along Mark’s side. He had been all whittled down wiry muscle and maybe a bit underfed before, now his musculature was something perplexingly out of a male underwear catalog. “So what’s stopping you?”

“Someone more compatible for her. More handsome. More fun.  _Younger.”_  


“So?”  


“Who also happens to be the father of her child.”  


“Ah,” Eggsy says. There’s another long moment of silence before, “But there was a chance. What’s changed?”  


“That’s just the thing,” Mark sighs. “I haven’t.”  


“But you want to.”  


“I haven’t.”  


“But you want to,” Eggsy insists. When he smiles, it’s bittersweet. “I see a bloke who wants to change. Who has the potential.”  


“Is that what you did?” Mark asks, lifting a brow. Thus far, he hadn’t acknowledged Eggsy’s apparent transformation, but now is as good a time as any. “It’s easier to do when you’re young.”  


“It’s never easy,” Eggsy says. “But coming out the other side, I dare say it’s worth it.”  


Sometime after that, Mark actually falls asleep deeply enough that what finally rouses him back to consciousness is a mobile going off. Unthinkingly, he reaches out across the bed, picks it up, and answers it, not quite stopping to wonder why his phone’s gone and changed brands on him or what it is doing so far away from him in the first place.

“Who’s this?” an indignant Scottish voice says in response to his mumbled greeting.  


It’s then that Mark realises he’s answered Eggsy’s phone and more of the waking world sinks in: the shower going on in the other room, the scent of Eggsy’s cologne still on the sheets.

“Oh. Uh…sorry. I’ve answered the wrong phone.” And really, who had any right to call at half six in the bloody morning on a Saturday? “I’m afraid Eggsy is indisposed at the moment. Can I take a message?”  


There’s a long hesitating silence on the other end before the man makes a noise of impatience and finally grunts out, “Tell him to call _work_ when he gets himself _disposed_. Tell him it concerns an old friend and that he better pack for Kentucky,” and abruptly ends the call before Mark can even so much as acknowledge the command.

Odd all around, but he can’t deny the effect it has upon Eggsy when he relays the message. Mark hadn’t realised just how much of that spark had been missing in Eggsy until it suddenly lights up like a flint being struck.

“If you want it bad enough, if you can’t live with what you’ve got now, then you’ve got to do it,” he tells Mark earnestly as he frantically runs about trying to get dressed. “If you’re lucky enough to get a second chance, then fucking hell, don’t waste it.”  


When he kisses Mark goodbye, there’s an air of finality in the way he lingers for a second too long, holds and memorises Mark like he doesn’t think there will be a third time.

Mark hopes there won’t be either.


	19. hartwin - nipple porn. you're welcome.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request for nipple play porn, because why not? Rated E, nsfw

Harry hates, _hates_ the fact that on a nippy—no, _brisk_ autumn morning when Eggsy walks into his office, sans suit jacket and tie, with hardened nipples jutting out from beneath his thin dress shirt, all of Harry’s focus zeroes in on them like a laser-guided missile.

Whatever mildly disapproving comment he’d been about to utter (something about Eggsy’s inability to knock on doors, maybe) dries up in his throat. His gaze doesn’t even lock with Eggsy’s two eyes so much as those two nubs on his chest. Surprisingly full, a good amount to pinch between his teeth—

“Harry?” Eggsy breaks into the runaway train of his filthy, perverted musings.

Harry blinks and raises his gaze. “Hmm?”

Eggsy is frowning now. There’s that telltale divot between his brows and his lips are curved down, almost comically, in what he has often heard Lancelot refer to as his _frowny face_. “You alright?”

“I’m perfectly well, thank you,” Harry says, though even he can’t help the way his eyes begin travelling again. He forcibly tears his gaze away from Eggsy’s chest by turning his body wholesale to the mountainous stack of paperwork piled high upon his desk. For an organisation that prides itself on being one of the most technologically advanced international spy agencies, it still seems to generate a rather large carbon footprint. And no, Harry refuses to categorise the various explosions he has caused throughout his career as contributing to the problem. “Is there a problem with your office’s heat?” He absolutely knows there is not, as the evidence is right in front of him.  


If anything, that seemingly random question causes a flicker of confusion to ripple across Eggsy’s features. “No?”

“Because it seems you forgot your suit jacket. Or is this some new, millennial take on the suit I seem to be unaware of?”

“Oh.” Eggsy glances down at himself, self-conscious for all of .02 seconds before he shrugs breezily. “Yeah there was a bit of mishap down in R&D earlier.”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to frown. He hadn’t heard about this. “Mishap?”

“Yeah. I was helping them test a few new gadgets, right? And one of them probably still needed a bit of calibration as my jacket sort of, er, melted.”

Harry blinks. “Melted.” He’s going to throttle Merlin.  


“…yeah,” Eggsy finishes, fidgeting just a little under Harry’s incredulous scrutiny, tucking his thumbs in the waistband of his trousers, puffing his chest out and putting The Nipples on full and prominent display.

“Dear god,” Harry croaks.

“What?” Eggsy asks. “Harry—"

“Perhaps I should be paying more attention to what the R&D team is doing from here on out with a closer eye given to their budget so we can nip this problem in the bud.” Harry pales. “I mean. Solve. Solve this problem.” Shit.

“It wasn’t that big a deal, honestly,” Eggsy says, already moved to defend those he feels have been wronged. Idly, he runs a thumb up and down his chest to scratch at an itch as he speaks. Harry eyes track each up and down movement attentively. “I volunteered for it. I understood the risks, and besides, now we know that Kingsman suits are a lot more useful than even we previously…Harry, are you even paying attention?”

“You should go put on a jumper,” Harry tells him.

Eggsy stares at him. “A ju… _why_?”

“You’re cold. Obviously.” Harry pauses. As if in contrast, his cheeks feel like they are on fire. “I’m sure Merlin has one or ten to spare.”

“I’m not that bad off! I….” Eggsy follows the line of Harry’s immobile gaze down to his chest. Finally, he gets it. His face when he looks back up at Harry is caught somewhere between disbelief and outrage. “Are you…is this….?” He waves at The Nipples frantically. Harry swears one of them winks at him. “This is what’s bothering you? _Really_? What are we, back in Victorian times? Should I make sure my trousers are properly hemmed lest I bare a bit of ankle?”

“I don’t really think the Victorians had such stipulations regarding…that.” A short jerk of his hand indicates the offending area. “Besides, most were properly attired with enough layers to preclude such an occurrence from even being a problem.”

Eggsy sputters. “So not the point! Yeah, alright, I’m a bit…sensitive.” The flush starts in his cheeks and travels well down his neck and below his collar. Harry is suddenly filled with the desire to know how far down it goes. “Is that gonna be an issue?”

“How sensitive?” Harry’s mouth asks before his brain has a chance to stop it. It’s quite possibly the most mortifying moment of his life.

“I… _what?”_

“Are they chafing right now?” Harry’s mouth continues in its rogue operation. It’s broken out of the gate and run off into the horizon by now.

Eggsy is frozen, mouth hanging open not altogether unattractively, and then Harry sees the flip being switched in his mind. The gleam in his eyes suddenly becomes shrewd, pupils slowly blowing out in lust. He closes his mouth and his lips turn up in a sly, puckish smile. “A bit,” he says. “Could use some relief, actually.”

Now that they’ve both reached an unspoken consensus, Harry finds his mind turning towards more pressing concerns, such as the heat that had graced his cheeks sinking straight down to his cock. “Then why don’t you show me the problem and we’ll work towards finding a solution.”

And, oh, when Eggsy reaches down to unbutton his shirt, revealing the pale expanse of his chest in tantalisingly slow increments, Harry’s breath catches in his throat when he sees those two small but perfect buds, blood-darkened to a dusky rose, the exposure to the cool air making them seemingly harden impossibly more.

“Come here,” Harry commands. Not asks. The time for niceties is over and he’s run out of patience.  


When Eggsy saunters over to within arm’s reach, Harry leans forward to close the gap between one swollen nipple and his mouth, pulling the bud between his lips and sucking _hard_.

The effect is like touching a live wire. Eggsy hisses as his whole body curves into Harry like a bow, simultaneously pushing his chest forward and trying to pull back from both the succulent heat of Harry’s mouth and the sting of pain it sparks across his over-sensitised skin.

Harry doesn’t dare let him go, instead only tightening his hands around Eggsy’s hips and sinking his teeth none too gently around the nipple in warning. Eggsy immediately stills after one last shudder runs through his body. That is, until Harry lifts one hand to circle and pinch Eggsy’s other nipple between his callused fingers.

Eggsy wails. There’s no other word for it, a needy sound helplessly torn from his throat, originating from somewhere primal. His hand latches on to the back of Harry’s head, fingers digging into his hair to press him closer. Harry can feel the faintest brush of the hard outline of Eggsy’s cock against his chest, and every time it happens, Eggsy thrusts his hips forward, frantic for more friction, only to be frustrated when Harry backs off, glancing up to meet Eggsy’s glassy eyes with a wolfish grin.

“Jesus, Harry,” Eggsy gasps, air whistling between his clenched teeth. “You’re one filthy bastard, you know that?”  


Harry releases the bud he had been worrying with his tongue long enough to say, “You’re so very responsive, darling, I can hardly help myself,” before blowing cool air across the saliva slick surface.

It makes Eggsy shiver and moan wantonly, and suddenly Harry’s thoughts scatter in a thousand different directions. He wants to rub them with ice and force Eggsy to wear clamps beneath his shirt all day, hissing every time the material rubs up against them. He wants to see if he can make Eggsy come like this, abusing his nipples until tears stream down his cheeks, maybe let the boy rub off on his thigh if he’s good. He wants to see what those nipples would look like with metal pierced through them. Small rings, maybe, that Harry can tug on with his teeth or attach a chain to, leading him about by them, forcing Eggsy to crawl.

The frequency and intensity in which these scenarios play out in his head is startling. He’s rock hard in his trousers, Harry realises, which hasn’t happened without a helping hand in nearly a decade. “The things i want to do to you,” he tells Eggsy earnestly. “Forever, if you’ll let me.”

Eggsy’s heated gaze turns inexplicably fond as he runs his fingers through Harry’s hair, dragging it out of its neat style, leaving it as ruined as he feels. “You make the weirdest love confessions ever, but alright.”

For that, Harry tweaks the nipple still pinched between his fingers, producing a high-pitched yelp, then assuages the ache by cupping Eggsy’s erection through the fabric and giving him a rewarding vice for Eggsy to instinctively thrust up against until he’s panting heavily. “Ohhhh, oh, Harry! _Please_. I need—come on.”

“Does it sting or burn, darling?” Harry ask. “Can you bear a little bit more for me? If I let you have my mouth, will you continuing playing with them for me? I want to watch you.”  


“Yes, yes, anything,” Eggsy says mindlessly, but Harry deems it good enough to release his nipple in order to lower his hands to work on his trousers. Ever obedient, Eggsy’s fingers take over, pinching and rolling them into painful red pebbles with a sort of punishing vigour, biting his lower lip to keep the winces at bay.  


“Yes, very good,” Harry approves as he frees Eggsy’s pretty cock, already beading pre-come from the tip. One good turn deserves another, he thinks, licking a long stripe up the underside, pulling back foreskin to circle his tongue around the bulbous head before sliding his lips down the length and applying as much enthusiastic suction as he had afforded Eggsy’s nipple.  


“Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Harry,” Eggsy breathes, never stopping or letting up on his own self-punishment.   


Clever boy that he is, he cottons on quickly to how Harry will only bob his head in rhythm to his own movements, forcing himself to pull at his nipples in sharp jerks that make him whimper, until Harry’s nose is buried in the coarse curls at the base of his cock and he’s crying out in pained pleasure as he comes down Harry’s throat.

Harry pulls off him with a slurp and covers Eggsy’s weakling twitching fingers, stilling their almost automated actions. The heat from his palms sink into those tortured nubs, and Eggsy exhales as the orgasm high starts to wind down, easily moving back with the pressure of Harry’s hands until he’s knocked over the tower of bureaucracy to be laid out over the desk on his back, shirt still pulled wide open, red, irritated nipples peaked out over his heaving, sweat-sheened chest.

The smooth planes of his skin hastens Harry’s actions in freeing his own cock from his trousers, and though his knees won’t thank him later, he practically climbs up onto the desk to straddle Eggsy as he licks one palm and begins to furiously stroke himself. Perhaps at any other time he’d be more embarrassed that it doesn’t take much until he’s coming over Eggsy’s chest with a groan, but it’s too utterly gratifying to paint Eggsy’s nipples and the surrounding areolas in splatters of white.

“Shit, Harry. I ain’t gonna be able to wear a shirt for a week,” Eggsy says, lifting his head to study the mess on his chest. Upon seeing the spark of interest in Harry’s eye, Eggsy rushes to add, “That’s _not_  a challenge.”  


There’s a bead of come glistening like morning dew from the tip of one nipple, and Harry can’t help leaning down to lick it off as Eggsy tries to shy away. “Oi, leave off those now for now or they’re gonna start looking like JB’s rawhide toys.”

This marvelous boy, Harry thinks with wonder, crawling up the length of Eggsy’s torso to give him a proper first kiss instead.

Finally Eggsy pulls back with a soft, satisfied smile. “God, if I had known you had a thing for nips, I’d have broken Kingsman’s radiators long ago.”  


“Then it’s fortunate it hadn’t come down to that. Percival’s are the size of boulders,” Harry says with a shudder. “Nobody needs to see that.”  



	20. hartwin + merwin - “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For insanereddragon; prompt, Merwin, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

Eggsy doesn’t particularly enjoy Kingsman’s meetings and Merlin is nothing if not his efficient, straight-to-the-point self, but these days their sprint-like appointments (mission briefings, debriefings, equipment testing, it didn’t matter) were shorter than ever, and still every second of them was born with excruciating tension, avoidant gazes, and clipped replies. 

At the end of yet another forced gathering filled with awkward stops and starts, it’s Harry who brings up the matter first in his deceptively polite and arrestingly direct way. “Is there something that’s happened between the two of you I should be made aware of?”

“No,” Eggsy and Merlin answer simultaneously.

Harry just raises his brows in clear disbelief. “Alright, but do let me know when you’ve worked it out. We’ll throw a party,” he dryly says before switching gears, focusing on Eggsy, growing warmth in his eyes letting Eggsy know that business has concluded for the day. “Do you have plans for dinner tonight?”

“N-no….” He watches Merlin immediately start for the door, and Eggsy can’t help but track his swift retreat before turning back to Harry. “I’m sorry, what was the question?”

He feels like he’s being thoroughly dissected and examined by Harry’s penetrating gaze and struggles to not react. Harry finally takes pity on him and softens, reaching across the short distance between Arthur’s and Galahad’s positions at the table to take hold of his hand and draw it up to his mouth, kissing his scabbed over knuckles. “If you’re not otherwise engaged, then I would very much like to wine and dine you before taking you back home and thoroughly desecrating the bed.”

Even after six months of, for lack of a better term, _chivalric_ courting and the official establishment of their—capital R—Relationship, Harry still has the propensity to make Eggsy blush with his uncanny ability to conflate the genteel and profane. And as off-balance as he currently feels, Eggsy knows his cheeks are positively flaming, but he still strives to make a show of thinking about it. “I’ll have to check my schedule and get back to you.”

A small smile toys at Harry’s lips and his eyes gleam with amusement. “Well, if you can find the time, I’ll be at the shuttle at seven.”

“So if I can find the time, you’ll be at the shuttle at half seven, is what will really happen.”

Harry looks like he wants to protest simply out of reflex, but finally concedes. “That very likely will be the case.”

 

_____

 

It hadn’t always been this easy.

Harry has been legally dead for a good four months until the day he waltzes into the shop wearing an honest to God plaid shirt, khaki trousers, and hiking boots with a head half shaved and still swathed in bandages. His first words to the very badly shaken Andrew are, “Pardon me, if it’s not too much trouble, my dressings should be changed. There’s hopefully less drainage now,” before promptly passing out on a bolt of Italian silk-wool blend. Leave it to Harry to even do unconsciousness with style.

He remains that way for the next five days, and there is a serious possibility he would never wake up (something about too much fluid buildup in his head, they had to _drain Harry’s skull like a coconut_ , for fuck’s sake) during which Eggsy camps out in Harry’s room, discovering the torture that are the medical wing’s chairs, experimenting with how long he could go without bathing before he starts to smell truly rank, and testing the upper limits of his sleep deprivation, and quite possibly, the endurance of his very soul.

But on the fifth day, like some new divine decree, Harry wakes up, moans about looking like Merlin when he learns the other half of his head had been shaved, takes one look at Eggsy in his wrinkled and ripe-smelling Kingsman suit, greasy hair, dark circles, and fraught expression, and fondly whispers, “But look at you, worth getting shot in the head for.”

Which is really as much a wretched thing to say as it is wonderful, and Eggsy, dancing on his very last tightly strung and sleep-deprived nerve, bursts into ugly, congested tears while Harry lets him snot all over his chest as he holds Eggsy and even pets his disgusting hair.

After that, he remains an adamant fixture by Harry’s side throughout his recovery, his physical therapy, the long and arduous process of becoming legally not dead, and his eventual installment onto the still-vacant Kingsman throne.

Harry’s first words as the newly-coronated Arthur are, “My greatest nightmare has been realised,” which makes the other knights laugh, even though he is being perfectly serious.

There are the few awkward moments when Harry is ready to go back to his home only to learn that Harry’s home had legally become Eggsy’s during the period of his temporary death.

“I’ll move out!” Eggsy blurts out. “I didn’t have much anyway, and I hadn’t really done much with the place.” It is supposed to be reassurance, but it isn’t until Eggsy voices the words that he realises how truly pathetic he sounds.

“Nonsense,” Harry easily brushes off. “I am not about to put you out of a house and home. You can have the guest.”

And that is how Harry and Eggsy become co-owners of a house together.

In hindsight, the Relationship had been pretty much inevitable. There are too many nights of going home together at the end of a long day, cooking dinner together, doing the washing up after, watching classic films, evening walks in the garden, doing the shopping, heading down to the local for a pint. Somehow, Harry could be gallant and chaste in his insistence upon wooing Eggsy old school style despite the fact they both live under the same roof, one of them is a sexually-interested, hot-blooded, young male, and neither finds the other’s body repulsive.

But the truth of the matter is that somewhere between getting bailed out of the nick, jumping out of airplanes thinking he had no parachute, not shooting his dog, and saving the world from a mad environmentalist, Eggsy had found himself at first in awe of Harry, then inspired by him, enraged at him, brokenhearted for him, and then terribly, terribly in love with him.

After their sixth date to the Electric Cinema, when Harry leans in to kiss him goodnight before going his separate way into his own bedroom, Eggsy grabs the lapels of his suit and practically drags Harry into his. “Look, the romance has been great and all, but can you start putting it in now, yeah?”

And Harry, gentleman that he is, lives to serve.

 

_____

 

But before all of that slowly unfolding wonder, there had been the uncertainty, the despair.

The high from saving the world comes to a crashing halt as soon as the jet lands and is resettled in Kingsman’s hangar with Eggsy finding himself locked in the lavatory having a panic attack.

What an awful feeling it was to realise he had gone from one day being a street punk chav who had failed out of everything he ever tried to do to a man who had saved the world by killing thousands of people, most of them world leaders, and three of which had been performed in a very personal manner.

His brain replays their deaths over and over again, their faces, the various bodily fluids that had poured out of their orifices, then skitters to thoughts of how many other deaths had happened because he hadn’t stopped it sooner. Harry would have done. Roxy certainly would have done it better too. Who was he to have the godlike power to decide who lived or died? Didn’t that make him just as bad as Valentine himself?

“Shhhh, none of that now. You’ve done very well, Eggsy, very well. Not even Harry could have done it better,” Merlin says, because, oh right: Merlin had gone to fetch Eggsy, discovered the state Eggsy was in, bypassed the locks, wedged his rather gangly body into the narrow space Eggsy had found between the toilet and the wall just so he could hold Eggsy securely and let Eggsy soothe himself by rubbing his cheek against Merlin’s wool jumper and listening to the steady thump-thump of his heart.

Eggsy hadn’t realised he had spoken his thoughts aloud, but Merlin’s reassurances, delivered in that honey warm tone which was a 180 degree difference from his usual dry delivery, are immensely comforting.

That night, they finish the entire decanter of Napoleonic brandy. Fuck Chester King thrice over.

They find a pattern thereafter. Merlin guides Eggsy seamlessly through missions, practically directing Eggsy’s actions remotely like he could touch and manipulate Eggsy’s body with barely a spoken word, such is the growing trust and connection between them.

For all that time, Merlin never once lets him down.

Every time Eggsy finds it difficult to adjust to the rhythm of Kingsman life: the harrowing missions, the comedown of adrenaline, the injuries, the ones he can’t save, Merlin becomes less the exacting taskmaster than the friend, the comforter, the confidante.

“How did Harry handle all this?” Eggsy asks. “He made it look so easy.”

“The Harry you knew had over twenty years of experience as an agent,” Merlin reminds him. “I imagine when he was your age, he felt very much as you do now.”

“Fuck, I miss him,” Eggsy admits.

“As do I.”

Eggsy learns that Merlin has two cats named Apollo and Starbuck that are currently housed with his brother because he practically lives at Kingsman, carries a secret fondness for 80s New Wave, drinks a steady supply of tea throughout the day and night, and has watched the entire series of the remade _Battlestar Galactica_ over fifteen times, the last one being accompanied by Eggsy.

He tells Eggsy about Lee’s training, how his dog had been a little dachshund named Banger who always urinated when he was excited, and how after Lee died, James had adopted Banger to live alongside his own Irish Wolfhound, Beowulf. The two dogs swiftly became inseparable, and the size disparity between the two creatures always made for an amusing sight. 

 

_____

 

Things had changed when Harry re-entered their lives, and Eggsy’s world had narrowed in scope to practically watching for Harry’s next breath. He’d been so focused on Harry’s well-being, so terrified of losing him again, that he hadn’t realised how quietly Merlin had stepped into the background and made himself as obscure as possible. No more late night conversations. No more television series marathons. No more drinks.

Shamefully, he doesn’t notice it until Merlin briefs him on his first assignment since Harry’s coronation, his first mission, in fact, since Harry had been returned to them.

Merlin is polite, professional, and completely devoid of the growing camaraderie they had once shared, giving Eggsy the emotionless, pertinent facts of the mission and little else. No more dry, amusing asides, no more concerned glances, no more easy smiles.

“Merlin, we alright?” Eggsy asks after Merlin asks him if he has any questions and then promptly dismisses him.

Merlin looks up at him from where he had been busy with his tablet as always. Eggsy can’t glean a single thing from the empty expression on his face. “Yes, of course, Galahad. Is there any reason why we shouldn’t be?”

“No.” If anything, the innocent answer just confuses Eggsy more. “I mean. It’s just that. You seem…I dunno. Distant, maybe?”

Merlin blinks uncomprehendingly at him. “I don’t know what you mean by that. Do you feel as if I am not providing you with enough data or support?”

“Nevermind,” Eggsy mutters, beating a hasty and utterly bewildered retreat.

 

_____

 

But it continues to bother him. Eggsy feels like he’s lost a piece of himself. Merlin is in his ear as always on missions, but something is off. He speaks, but it’s no longer like a dance. It takes longer for Eggsy to understand his direction, like there’s a delay. Eggsy has to struggle with it like they’ve been poorly translated.

He moves just a little too slow. He makes more mistakes, one of which lands him in Kingsman’s medical ward with a concussion.  


Harry is there by his side much of the time, of course, but his duties at Kingsman means he doesn’t get to adhere to Eggsy’s bedside the way Eggsy had been glued to his.

He doesn’t know whether to be angry, embarrassed, or relieved when Merlin finally comes to visit.

“How are you faring?” Merlin asks warily, like he’s afraid Eggsy will go off on him.

“Alright,” Eggsy says. “Sorry I fucked it up.”

“Don’t worry about it. Roxy took care of the rest.” Merlin still refers to Roxy by her name but he always addresses Eggsy as _Galahad_ these days. It stings. “I’ve gone over the extent of your injuries with the doctors. It appears you’ll be off the roster for the next two weeks at lea—”

“Did I do something to you?” Eggsy suddenly asks.

“Excuse me?”

“Did I piss you off? Accidentally steal your favourite mug? Shave your cat? ‘Cause you been giving me the evils for awhile now and I don’t have a fucking clue as to what I’ve done,” Eggsy says all in a rush, fearing he’d lose his nerve otherwise.

Merlin doesn’t answer for a very long time, like Eggsy’s caught him out. Finally, though, he looks away, actually turns his head and all. “No.”

“Then what the fuck is this?”

“I’m trying to do the right thing here, Eggsy,” Merlin says, and when he finally meets Eggsy’s eyes, Eggsy is taken aback by the depth of intensity within them.

“What right thing? I don’t know what you’re on about. All I know is that I miss you. It’s like you’re not even here anymore.”

“You really want to know what this is?” Merlin asks, something in his voice changing: a dare, half-mad, half-resigned, that makes Eggsy want to proceed more cautiously.

But he also wants to get to the bottom of this, whatever it is. The issued challenge riles up his blood, makes his nostrils flare and that old defiant self that still lurks within him comes out swinging. “Yeah, I really fucking do, mate.”

Merlin comes at him, except whereas Eggsy would have been ready for the fight, fists up, bouncing on the balls of his feet, he’s utterly unprepared for the way Merlin sits down beside him on the hospital bed, cups his cheek, and captures his lips in a tender, then searing, kiss.

He’s so shocked, it feels like hours before he realises he’s kissing Merlin back, mouth open, tongue sliding along his, fingers entwined in Merlin’s jumper to keep him close and inhale his bergamot scent. Merlin’s hand has slid down to his neck, thumb pressed to his pulse point, counting the rapid beats of his heart.

_Oh._

When Merlin finally pulls away, Eggsy slowly opens his eyes, feeling the lingering warmth and saliva on his lips.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, looking ten shades of wrecked. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“Merlin….”

“It won’t happen again, Galahad.”

“But—”

“It won’t. Happen. Again,” Merlin says, shutting up Eggsy for good.

 

_____

 

“So are you ever going to tell me what’s happened between you and Merlin?” Harry asks, pulling Eggsy from his distracted thoughts and back to the present. Right: they’re at their favourite little trattoria, and Harry’s been keeping up a light stream of chatter while Eggsy’s simply sat there like a lump. “Because it’s not minor, whatever it is, and it seems to be significantly affecting you.”

The familiar feeling of guilt and dread weighs heavily in his stomach whenever Eggsy thinks about it. “It’s fine.” He puts on his best unbothered face and uses his fork to spear more penne pasta off his plate. “Being handled. I promise.”

Harry just looks at him, really looks at him, in the way he does when he knows Eggsy is lying through his teeth. Eggsy can tell he’s disappointed, but he won’t press the issue, gentleman that he is, even though for once, Eggsy wishes he would.

Because knowing how much he’s let Harry down almost hurts worse, but if Harry’s disappointed with him now, Eggsy can’t imagine how disappointed he’d be if he ever learned the truth about what happened between his boyfriend and his best friend.

Can never know that Eggsy had _liked_ it.

Still runs his fingers over his lips and imagines it.

Dreams about what could have been and more, sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P to the S: AnnaofAza has written a HORRIBLE GUT-WRENCHING continuation of this [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8411995), just in case you feel like you aren't in enough pain today.
> 
>  **ETA:** Oops, now it's become an angst-off and a whole work on its own: [http://archiveofourown.org/works/8411995](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8411995/chapters/19288813)


	21. hartwin - Harry and Eggsy's Grocery List

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to AnnaofAza saying she would read my version of Harry and Eggsy's grocery list, SO.

**Harry & Eggsy’s Grocery List:**

  * Breakfast Tea ( _not Twinings, Eggsy, have some standards_ )  

  * Milk
  * HOB NOBS - 12 ( _12???_ ) (Yeah. Problem?) ( _Crumbs in the bed for one_ ) (Yeah well I don’t see you kicking me out over em)  

  * Gin - Hendrick’s  

  * Salad mix (Not with purple stuff, we hates it) ( _Radicchio? Purple cabbage?_ ) (Er let’s be safe and ban all of them)  

  * Pasta shells that aren’t the shells ( _Orecchiette?_ ) (Yeah that’s the one)  

  * Chicken breasts  

  * Tinned tomatoes  

  * Yellow Onion  

  * Garlic
  * ( _Are you making us a nice dinner?_ )  

  * (Mayyybe)  

  * Lemon
  * Fresh parsley  

  * ~~JBs doggie treats~~ ( _Already four different kinds in the cupboard_.) (Yeah but he likes the pig ears.) ( _Those make him gassy. No._ )   

  * ~~15 Pig Ears~~ ( _Eggsy. No._ )  

  * Condoms - ~~3~~ ~~20~~ ~~3~~ ( _Eggsy_ ) **20** (I’ve got aspirations, Harry)  

  * Eggs ~~y~~
  * Beans  

  * PB ( _Just bought this last week_ ) (Yeah, it’s gone) ( _Gone? Gone how?_ ) (Same way any food does cept that cucumber that one time >:D) ( _…right. You are a peanut butter black hole_.) (You like my black holes) ( _Eggsy._ )  

  * Those kettle crisps with apple cider vinegar and salt - ~~3~~ 5
  * ~~Pig ears~~ ( _Eggsy_ )
  * (Oh come on!)
  * (I’ll let you do that thing to me. You know what I’m talking about.)  
  
  

  * Pig ears




	22. hartwin - hey now there's spanking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the following prompt: _If you take prompts, can I ask for when after Eggsy gets back from failing the dog test, Harry punishes him? (I'd really like to see spanking, if you're okay with that; go as dark as you want)_
> 
>  **Warnings:** spanking, dubious consent, and abrupt endings, because I couldn't figure out how to end this thing without writing 10K more words.

Once he realises there would be no escaping the fucking self-driving Kingsman taxi, Eggsy falls back on sullenness, crossing his arms, glaring at the dashboard like it’s personally done him wrong.

Gradually he begins to recognise the long, winding Gloucester Road, and can’t be surprised when the car pulls a sharp turn into the mews, just narrowly clearing the opening, trundling down the lane and coming to a stop before the house at its end, its owner standing atop the front balcony, frowning down at Eggsy like some disappointed mighty ruler.

Reluctantly, he gets out of the taxi and opens the front door to Harry’s home. It’s unlocked of course. Harry’s just coming down the stairs.

The look on his face can only be described as disgusted. “You throw away your biggest opportunity over a fucking dog. And then you humiliate me by stealing my boss’ car.”

Eggsy’s never taken well to bein disciplined. He’s always lashed out, defence as offence. “You shot a dog just to get a fucking job!”

Harry throws him for a loop with his quick concession. “Yes, I did.” He doesn’t stop moving once he’s cleared the stairs, heading for a door that, to Eggsy’s memory, has always been closed until Harry throws it open. “And Mr. Pickle here reminds me of that every time I take a shit!”

It’s difficult to know where to look first. There’s the fact that it’s a toilet, but it’s a toilet decorated in a colorful array of _dead_ bugs. Everywhere. On the walls, the shelves. Far more than what would be considered chintzy wallpaper, bordering on possibly psychologically disturbing.

But no amount of disturbance would compare to the fucking stuffed dead dog on the shelf, peering at Eggsy with glassy, beady eyes. Holy fuck. “You shot your dog and had it stuffed?” There are hardly words for it. Eggsy’s gaze moves from the dead dog to Harry. “You fucking freak!“  


Harry has the gall to look disappointed. “No, I shot my dog and then brought him home and continued to care for him for the next eleven years until he died of pancreatitis.”

That revelation throws Eggsy for a loop. “What?”

“It was a blank, Eggsy,” Harry tells him, withering. “It was a fucking blank. Remember Amelia?”

Eggsy’s mind is reeling. The mention of Amelia just teeters him further off course. “Yeah.”

“She didn’t drown. She works in our tech department in Berlin. She’s fine,” Harry informs him. “Limits must be tested. A Kingsman only condones the risking of one life to save another.”

It’s suddenly all very humiliating, how very easily Eggsy had been taken like the fucking mug Dean always said he was. It’s not quite like the moment Merlin had drawn him in close, growled in his ear, and then yanked his parachute open, knocking him arse over tea kettle, or even like the time he thought he’d been drugged, kidnapped, and left to be bisected by an oncoming train. This is…this is a _mindfuck_ of the worst order. A humiliating mindfuck to drive home the fact he’d been so gullible. Repeatedly.

It infuriates him. That Harry would lure him into this whole mess with the promise of making something better for himself, of _becoming_ better, only to have the whole fucking thing get pulled out from under him. Did Harry do this to his dad too? His dad who had sacrificed his life for a fucking lie?

“My dad might’ve saved your life, even though your fuck-up cost his?” he spits at Harry, instinctively hitting at weak points, going for the throat. “What, you’ve got him stuffed here and all?”

It does the trick alright. Harry’s eyes, no longer shielded by his Kingsman glasses, are larger and brighter, easily reflecting the wounds Eggsy’s piercing words inflict. The shocking vulnerability within them steals Eggsy’s breath. “Can’t you see that everything I’ve done has been about trying to repay him?”

Something beeps—belatedy, Eggsy realises it’s Harry’s glasses—and Harry turns his back, all but dismissing him.

Eggsy only gets to hear half a conversation Harry has with someone who he thinks is Merlin. Something about a church spoken in clipped words, and then Harry is pulling off his glasses, focusing on him once more.

“Harry, I’m so sor—”

“You should be,” Harry cuts him off, slashing off the creeping guilt climbing through Eggsy’s heart.

He never liked how Harry always spoke to him like he was a child, always back to manipulating him with his dead dad, even now, like it were a live grenade with the pin pulled out being tossed between them. “So should you!” he snarls out just as Harry’s about to open his mouth again. “Always thinking you’s high and mighty, like you’d done me a favour, inviting me into your fucked up little spy world!”

Fury sears across Harry’s gaze, hot and alive, turning his eyes darker than Eggsy had ever seen them. The rest of his expression, however, remains as unmoving as stone as he slips his glasses back on. “Change of plans. You’ll have to find someone else, Merlin, or delay the trip. There’s a matter to which I must attend. Apologies.”

Merlin must be shouting because even Eggsy can hear him—

_—the hell are you talking about? Harry? HARRY!_

—Before Harry removes his glasses again and slips them into his front pocket.  


And then before he can blink, Harry grabs the back of his neck and shoves him against the wall, towel rack digging into his ribs. Harry presses his body all along the back of him, fingers pinching painfully as he leans in close to Eggsy’s ear, whispering in a quiet menace that sends chills up Eggsy’s spine.

“Oh, you don’t know what sorry is, but you’ll learn.”  


He only feels the ghost of Harry’s fingers at the waistband of his jeans, skirting along his hip thumbing at the button, making him _gasp_ —  


It takes a few moments to process it and by that time, Harry’s gone and yanked him about again, upsetting his balance so abruptly that Eggsy doesn’t realise what’s happened until he finds himself draped over Harry’s thighs while Harry sits on the toilet cover, Harry’s hand still gripping the back of his neck.  


The position is too vulnerable, more than a little awkward, and, above all, intensely embarrassing. Eggsy tries to buck up. “Let me go, you fucking—!”

In response, Harry just tightens his hold until Eggsy’s whimpering, arching up. “Stop fighting me.” It becomes too much, and Eggsy sags, fight all gone out of him. “Good,” Harry croons, his approval like a warm caress.

It feels like all his blood is heating up his cheeks. “What the fuck are you gonna do? Give me a bloody spanking?”

“If you insist on behaving like a child,” Harry admonishes, “Then yes, I do think I will.”

Eggsy blinks, taken aback. His anger drops away completely, heart now clamouring like it wants to climb out his throat.

His cock is rock hard against Harry’s thigh.

Surely Harry must feel it. His hand travels from the back of Eggsy’s neck down his spine, caressing the slip of skin between his sweatshirt and jeans at the small of his back, causing Eggsy to shiver. Still, he tries to shrug it off because Harry’s got to be taking the piss right about now. “You’re hilarious. Alright, I get it. You public school boys are all freaks. Let me up, yeah?”

“Push down your jeans and underwear. You don’t have to completely remove them, of course, but we’re going to do this properly.”

He freezes. His breath catches in his throat. “Harry….”

In response, Harry splays his palm flat against Eggsy’s skin, hot as a brand, rough with calluses. Eggsy tries to picture that hand lower where the skin is more sensitive, tries to picture that hand coming down harder. “Another rule of being a gentleman, Eggsy, is learning to take correction with grace.”

The air feels heavy with the weight of Harry’s expectations and something else, something taut with more tension and practically vibrating with unspoken _want_. Only Eggsy can’t entirely be sure if it’s all coming from him or not.

He moves slowly, dreamily, not in full control of his actions, watching himself brace his weight on the floor to raise his hips, pushing his chest into Harry’s thigh, so he can get his hands under himself to unbutton his jeans and push down the fly. It’s more than a little awkward, Eggsy feels his face flush as he pushes his jeans and boxers over his hips and the swell of his arse, until he lets gravity take over and they pool around his still bent knees.

It had been warm in Harry’s house, but his newly exposed skin goosebumps with chill and vulnerability.

And then Harry caresses the curve of his arse so slowly and with enough intent that Eggsy can’t help but think of the gesture as _reverent_.

It puts him at enough ease to make the first strike absolutely shocking.

It might as well have been a storm raging overhead: clap of thunder and its immediately ensuing strike of lightning; stunning more than anything, obliterating conscious thought and senses in a flash of light, leaving behind as the only evidence of its existence a ringing in his ears and a white hot heat rising from his skin like steam.

Silence follows its wake like a held breath. Eggsy doesn’t dare breathe, as if the slightest noise or gesture would cause the strange dream he’s found himself in to collapse. His fingers, he realises, are white from digging into the cool porcelain of the toilet like he means to brave it out, already defiant.  


It doesn’t last for more than a few moments surely, but they had stretched out infinitely in that eye until Harry’s hand finds him again, bringing down the flat of his callused palm against Eggsy’s arse with the force Eggsy’s seen him use in knocking out his opponents, all swift, surgical strikes. It propels his body forward, cock grinding into Harry’s thigh, a tendril of pleasure shooting through his stomach at the drag of friction lined with the heat of sweet ache.

Without the buffer of that first explosion of adrenaline, it _hurts_.  


There are no more pauses, just Harry’s hand bearing down upon him, over and over, in a quick, unending succession of slaps against his skin, layering the sting until a deep, smouldering pain sinks into his flesh.

Harry doesn’t pull his punches. He makes Eggsy _feel_ every ounce of his disappointment each time Eggsy’s body rocks, as the sting and heat build until the only way Eggsy can release the pressure is through each cry stuttered from his lips, indecipherable from pleasured moans or the cries his mother would make beneath Dean’s merciless fury.

He’s on fire. Burned beyond reason into numbness. It’s a sensation that starts in his arse and radiates outward until he can’t tell where his body ends and Harry’s deliverance begins. His face is hot and wet. His cries meld together in a sea of tears and hitched sobs, until he feels helpless and weak in his own flesh.  


At some point, Harry’s punishing hand turns soothing, but each touch to Eggsy’s oversensitised skin is searing and all he can do is remain draped over Harry’s lap, sagging and shaking and crying.

Harry manhandles him like a limp doll, urging him up with a hand to the back of his neck until he’s practically sitting in Harry’s lap and hissing from the pain, and then bundling Eggsy to his chest like a small child. Except Harry’s hand slides down to the ragingly hard cock between Eggsy’s legs and starts wanking him off in short, rough strokes that soon transform into an easy glide with the ample precome that seeps from the tip.

Eggsy clutches at Harry’s cardigan, burying his primal moans into his neck. His hips rock up to move into the perfection of Harry’s hand even as his arse protests with every movement. Somewhere in there, it all mixes up, the intense pleasure cresting the core well of ache, melding into a bright detonation of heat that bursts into sudden, forceful climax, spilling over Harry’s hand, dripping come onto the cuff of his cardigan and splattering across his trousers.

For minutes, or maybe hours, Eggsy remains where he is, slumped into Harry’s body, face pressed into his shoulder, orgasm stupid and wrung out. He gradually becomes aware of the way Harry cradles him, almost tender, how his spent cock is now pressed to the sticky mess it’s created between them, and of Harry’s erection still pressing up against his so recently abraded skin.


	23. hartwin - shiner - p. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For thebarofgold; prompt: _“I remember everything.”_
> 
> A sequel to [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7254013/chapters/18282067). I can't believe how long this thing is, it got away from me.

He used to be—he thinks, perhaps—a man who worked with his hands. Not hard labour, though. Or not always. Something imbued with a little more precision, delicacy. He thinks this is the case because his dexterous hands were, once, a confounding map of rough terrain and soft fields. The heels of his palms were practically smooth silk. The seams of his fingers were cracked, but sensitive. His nails had been neat, cuticles soft, beds shining.

They are not neat now.

Oh, he tries his best. He’s always scrubbing at his them with the industrial soap that is bought in bulk here in some desperate last grasp at sanitation, and his old skin has paid dearly for it, but better him than the poor fools that come into his care.

“You’ve broken your jaw, Ramirez.”

Ramirez looks back at him with dark, dead eyes set within a stony expression, appearing for all the world like he hadn’t understood or didn’t really care, though he must be in a great deal of pain. The beading of sweat across his forehead, the strain at the corner of his eyes, and the way he wants to clench his jaw but stops himself at the last moment and winces, attest to that. Softness, here, is an extinct species.

He sighs.

“Fortunately, it’s not bad enough to require any drastic measures.”

He thinks Ramirez might enjoy having his mouth wired shut. Any rivals who attempted to ply their fist there again would earn a few broken bones for their trouble.

“Just rest and icing to keep the swelling down. You shouldn’t be on the roster for the next three weeks at least.”

He knows his recommendations are issued in vain, but as the only medical professional here, he feels compelled to say them anyway.

He’s fairly certain he’d been doctor of some sort, perhaps even a surgeon. At some point, at least. His knowledge of the human body and all its processes is surprisingly deep, so there must be some truth to it. It just didn’t feel like an entirely satisfying conclusion.

That should be all. He really ought to dismiss Ramirez and call in who’s next, there was never an end to the injuries, but instead he finds himself speaking again with new candour. “I used to be like you once.”

This, remarkably, earns the slightest twitch of a brow, an efficient gesture that conveys worlds of scepticism.

He acknowledges it with a ghost of a smile. “Most everyone working here did as well. If you’re lucky, if you take care of yourself, this is what you can earn.”

He doesn’t talk about what happens to the ones who are not so lucky. Ramirez already knows.

Finally, Ramirez acknowledges him by slowly craning his head and spitting on the ground. When he turns his gaze back upon him, there is something more in his eyes now: fierce and burning loathing. “Doesn’t sound like much of a reward, Doctor.”

 

_____

 

That’s his name. Doctor. Doc. Docteur. Doktar. Daktaras. Doutor. Giatrós. As varied as the languages of the patients that come under his care. It’s the only name he’s ever been given from the moment he had woken up to a new life, battered and nearly broken beyond repair.

They said it was his last fight that finally did him in, causing a head injury so severe it permanently sidelined him, along with any memory up until then. He was getting old, they said. It was only a matter of time until a rival would take him out completely. When he learned he still possessed some medical knowledge, or at least the instincts, they retired him instead. One of the lucky ones.

And for the most part, it’s fine. His life expectancy has increased by magnitudes of order with his new purpose. People don’t leave Souza’s stables once they are obtained by him. Not even as corpses. The dead are buried on the grounds with lime, all traces of their existence burned to ashes in a metal bin.

His new life even comes with greater privileges. He gets his own private room and loo as opposed to living in the dilapidated barracks with the others. He gets to enjoy fresh fruits and vegetables. He has relative freedom to go where he pleases across most of the grounds. He is even allowed to go into town with an escort to restock his supplies, and if there’s a little extra from the small budget he’s allowed, he can even purchase a battered book from the old used bookseller’s. He’s managed to start a small but precious collection of eight books that way. They are neatly lined up beside each other on his nightstand. He’s read them at least ten times each, and probably didn’t even need to read them anymore, he could recite his favourite passages from memory.

He knows from the outside, it’s a very small and diminished life. He’s still a prisoner, even though he’s not being put into the rings anymore. But it’s the only life he’s ever known, and while he doesn’t know any better, he knows how it could be a hell of a lot worse.

 

_____

 

Souza has a good eye for picking strong and scrappy ones, but turnover is still, as expected, high. Fighters must be replaced as quickly as they’re lost. Intake usually occurs on Tuesdays.

Just the one this time. Diaz pushes in the heavily drugged and unconscious body of a twenty-something white male, which causes the Doctor a brief stab of guilt and worry. Younger means more energy and endurance, but also inexperience and recklessness. The young ones go faster than anyone else.

But the Doctor does his job all the same: uses scissors to divest the lad of his torn and dirty clothes, and takes an initial assessment of any prior injuries or initial health concerns. He’s surprised by how muscular and graceful of limb the boy is, a type of definition that is forged through a dedicated lifestyle. He’s even more surprised by how, beneath the fresh and superficial abrasions and bruising, there are already many old scars carved into that otherwise smooth, youthful skin, varied in size and shape, telling a bewildering story of all the implements used to create them: jagged knife wounds and puckered bullet holes and neat surgical scars.

The Doctor finally directs his attention to the lad’s still face as if it held all the answers to his growing number of questions, but of course it remains still, telling him nothing. It’s a very beautiful face to match a very beautiful body, though, and he finds himself gazing into it for longer than is necessary or appropriate.

Symmetrical features, divinely masculine angles.

He pries open the eyelids to learn the boy’s eyes are like the colours of the sea beneath a glimmering sun.

He curls those lips back to check the condition of the boy’s teeth and gums: good, all accounted for, but for the missing gap of one upper left molar.

He checks for what damage has been wrought from the fight that must have brought the young man to him now: some bruised ribs, but nothing broken. The boy’s hands are small and blunt. The bones are fine but sturdy, the knuckles thick and discoloured as leather from having been split open and healed over so many times. The nails are a little dirty and encrusted with dried blood, but he can see the echoes of their once well-kept state, cuticles neat and trimmed, nail beds still smooth from buffering.

It is only when he turns the boy’s head to the side to inject the GPS tracker at the base of his neck that the Doctor notices the faint, circular scar marking the very spot he had intended use himself for deployment.

There is only a scrap of a second’s worth of warning, the body beneath him tensing in preparation, those eyes flying open and unseeing, before the boy suddenly strikes out.

His injection gun is knocked out of his hand, sent flying across the room to crash into the wall and clatter to the ground. His own wrist is seized in a clammy but crushing grip that grinds the bones together.

The Doctor reacts without thinking, lashing out at that vulnerable neck, one quick but merciless jab that immediately has the boy abandoning his attack to cradle his injured throat, gagging and coughing as he turns away and onto his side, still far too drugged to do anything but immediately give in to the nausea and drowsiness.

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor says. He truly is. He supposes he’s sworn an oath to do no harm, but clearly his reflexes and instincts tell him that his words have long ago been empty ones.

On the metal table, the boy starts to shiver, teeth chattering, breath stuttering. A long, low groan seeps from his bruised throat.

He takes in the boy’s miserable form and feels fairly useless as he always does during these initial moments. “You’ll continue to feel like shit for the next few hours or so. Nasty side effects of the drugs they’ve used to subdue you, I’m afraid. Best to just sleep it off. Would you like some water?”

At the sharper jerk of the boy’s head, he moves to the sink, turning on the taps and waiting for the tepid water to run clear before filling up a plastic cup that had once been the cap to a laundry detergent bottle. He tentatively reaches out to touch the boy’s shoulder, bracing himself for any other violent reflexes, but aside from the automatic tensing, the boy relaxes in a way that is slow and intentional before he allows the Doctor to coax him onto his back and help sit him up enough to drink without choking.

“Just a little bit. Take slow sips,” the Doctor cautions. “Your stomach shan't thank you otherwise.”

When the boy drains the whole cap and doesn’t immediately throw it back up, the Doctor helps him to sit all the way up until his bare legs hang over the side. “Where am I?” the boy asks in a hoarse voice once he regains his bearings and the pulse of nausea that must be winding through him settles down.

“Somewhere between Brazil, Colombia, and Peru. Don’t ask me for anything more specific than that. I do not know myself.” The boy’s accent comes as another shock. The Doctor hasn’t heard it in so long that its immediate familiarity is almost strange. “You’re English.”

“Yeah.” The boy blinks, brows furrowing as if he’s only just belatedly noticed. He finally raises his head and meets the Doctor’s eyes. “And so’s you. Who are you?”

“I’m what passes for a doctor around these parts. Unfortunately, that’s not saying much.”

The Doctor watches as the boy processes this and knows the exact moment when he attempts to reach back into his own mind to recover information about himself in exchange. “Why can’t I…? Why can’t I remember anything? I can’t remember anything. I dunno….” The boy blinks rapidly. His breaths start to emerge in quickened pants.

“It’s the drugs they’ve given you,” the Doctor explains, cutting off the forestalling the impending panic attack. “They…do something with your memories. Everyone arrives in a similar state.”

A person who can’t remember the life from which they were stolen can’t fight to get back to it. The Doctor doesn’t know whether he’s twice blessed or twice cursed to have been separated from his twice over.

“Who’s _they_?”

“Josué Souza’s procurers. Souza’s one of the wealthiest men in South America, and coincidentally, your new master.”

“Wha?” As if only realising his vulnerable state for the first time, the boy glances down at his nudity and then looks back at the Doctor in fear and anger.

“No, not like that,” the Doctor hastily says, though he can’t help but feel a flush of shame at his prior admiration of the boy’s body. “I assure you, I was only giving you a cursory examination to assess your fitness. Nothing more.”

The boy shifts, drawing his knees up this his chest to cover his nudity and wrapping his arms around his legs. The Doctor supposes it’s meant as a form of self-protection, but the boy looks so much smaller like that. “Then why am I here?”

Sometimes the Doctor considers not answering this question. He’s never figured out a gentle way to explain it and the boy, after all, will soon come to find out for himself. But still, he finds the words coming out of his mouth anyway, blunt and ugly. “You were purchased for your fighting prowess. On several nights of the week, you will be forced to battle with an opponent to the death for bloodsport and money.”

A range of emotions flicker across the boy’s expressive face. He’s rather an open book, which could prove a liability in the ring. What he eventually settles upon, though, is anger, his jaw setting in stubbornness. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you’ll die, probably very painfully,” the Doctor says. “It’s kill or be killed. Your life is only worth as much as what you’ll do to defend it.”

“And if I try and escape?” 

“You’re in a compound full of hardened fighters, myself included.” A warning glance. The boy subconsciously touches his throat again, wincing at the tenderness there. “If it were that easy, do you think any of us would still be here?”

To that, the boy has no reply. The Doctor can tell his words have their intended effect, snuffing out the rebellious glint that had briefly sparked up.

“Speaking of which…” He moves to retrieve the injection gun from the floor. “I do still need to do this before you can leave here.”

The boy eyes the gun in his hands and there’s a light of recognition in his eyes. “You gonna chip me like a dog?”

“Something like that. We all have to have one.” When he takes a step closer to the table, the boy tenses again. “Please don’t try and fight me again. You won’t win in your state.”

“Can I at least put on some pants?”

“After, I’ll give you clean clothes to wear.”

After another few strained moments, the boy finally jerks his head in a quick nod and the Doctor steps up behind him, wordlessly guiding him to til his head, watching the shift of muscles fluttering beneath the skin at the gesture.

Again, the sight of that previous scar captures his focus. He can’t help running his thumb over the indentation, producing a slight twitch in the body beneath his touch. “Did someone else do something here?”

“How the fuck should I know?” The boy snorts. “Why the fuck would someone even do that?”

“You’ve been in many fights before.”

“Yeah? How you reckon?”

“Aside from the fact you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have some talent, your body is littered in scars that couldn’t have come from anything else.” As if to make a point, the Doctor traces a long curving ridge of one just below the boy’s right shoulder blade, causing the him to shiver. “Not just in the ring. Fights with weapons. Dangerous ones.”

“Maybe I could take you after all.” The boy’s intentions, to move, to make for another surprise attack, are immediately cut down when the Doctor presses the tip of the gun against his neck and squeezes the trigger, stamping the tracker deep into his flesh. “Ow! Fuck!”

“Even if you could, you still wouldn’t get very far,” the Doctor says, wiping away the bit of blood with a flannel before covering the injection site with a square plaster. He regrets not sterilising the injection site beforehand, but he’s got to be selective with his limited supplies and he’d rather save the antiseptic for the inevitable injuries to come. “Please don’t try and remove it yourself. The chip is embedded very deeply into the muscle and is designed to flood your system with a lethal dose of toxins if it’s tampered with. If you don’t believe me, talk to the others. They all know of at least one who’s tried and failed.”

“You must be real popular round these parts.” The boy shifts away from him in a not so subtle show of resentment and that, much to the Doctor’s nth surprise of the morning, smarts a bit.

“I take little pleasure in doing these things.” He moves to the cabinet and retrieves a clean set of boxers, sweats, and a singlet after a quick estimation of the boy’s size. He does not admit to using the moment to calm down before he returns to the boy’s side with the clothing, dropping the stack on the table. “I only wish to give you advice that will be most helpful under these circumstances, so a little gratitude would be nice.”

The boy freezes and gives him a strange look, but the Doctor does not ask why.

 

_____

 

His second encounter with the boy happens two days later, very late at night, or rather, well into the early hours of the morning when the humid air is less overbearing and the insects and other nocturnal animals are up and about, a sometimes deafening symphony of their own.

The Doctor is allowed to roam freely, which he frequently does with the restlessness of a bored wild animal, but he knows with certainty the fighters are locked up in the barracks each night at a time that was several hours ago, which makes the boy’s furtive and vaguely guilty appearance, hovering at the edges of a pool of illumination cast down by one of the compound’s various outdoor lamps, all the more suspicious.

“You’re not supposed to be out,” the Doctor says, stating the obvious. In his defence, he’s somewhat nonplussed by the unexpected sight of the boy’s presence in one of the oft-neglected paths.

“Just wanted some fresh air.” The boy shrugs and smoothly shuffles into the light with a defiantly casual ease. “The place they got me staying at is pretty rank, you know. Farm animals get treated better.”

The Doctor tries not to feel guilty. It isn’t as if he could control the living conditions to which the fighters were subjected. But he’s part of the regime now, he knows, inflicting suffering as opposed to being made to suffer, even when he only seeks to heal. “Fighters come and go so frequently, I suppose no one thinks much of an investment ought to be made in your comfort.”

“Then what’s the harm in letting me walk about? It’s not as if I could escape. You made sure of that.” The accusation is clear, fortified by the flare of anger in the boy’s eyes.

He tries not to react. It’s easier to deflect with a question. “How did you get out anyway?”

“Picked the lock when everyone was sleeping.” The boy shrugs. “Was easy.”

There’s something about the boy’s nonchalance that strikes the Doctor as being decidedly _off_ , though he couldn’t say why. Regardless, he knows he isn’t going to report the boy to the guards. “If you get caught, that’s on you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But the boy’s shoulders relax from their hunched position. He turns and slouches against a cement wall, folding his arms over his broad chest, looking for all the world like a put out streetwalker on a slow night. The position calls attention to the flex of muscle in his arms, strong and dotted with the occasional mole. There’s another faint pale line of a scar that runs down the right bicep. From shrapnel, most likely. Every few seconds, the boy scans the walkway for any patrols (they don’t walk this way, the Doctor knows, it’s why he always comes here). “What are _you_ doing out so late?”

“I don’t sleep very well.” He acknowledges the irony of the statement briefly, but the boy continues to stare at him with unrelenting focus. “So I take the occasional stroll. It’s a different world at night. The heat is almost tolerable.”

“Do you ever….” The boy abruptly closes his mouth, looking regretful.

“Do I ever…?”

Infuriatingly, the boy just shrugs again. “Nothing. Forget it.”

His gaze flickers away like a dismissal. The doctor certainly feels as if he’s been politely shown the figurative door, and to stand here any longer, staring with whatever is betrayed in his eyes, would be foolish. 

He tries to tell himself it is because he doesn’t want to be caught with an escaped fighter, in the unlikely event one of the guards should happen along. So he nods at the boy, and continues to shuffle along, feeling like the boy’s glare is pinned to his back until he can safely round a corner.

 

_____

 

The next time the Doctor sees the boy, he’s being physically dragged into his examination room between two guards without contributing much of his own volition to his transport. His beautiful face is a mess: one eye swollen shut, the whites of the other now almost uniformly red from a burst blood vessel, nose broken, lip fat and split, half his face swathed in blood from a nasty gash along his temple. When the guards abruptly let go of him, he stumbles forward, just able to catch himself on the edge of the table. He holds himself gingerly in a manner that suggests at least more bruised ribs. His knuckles have been split open and bloodied anew.

He hears the guards refer to the boy as _rata_ with an air of grudging respect before they leave, and thinks it makes a sort of sense. Rats are small and loathed but they’re natural survivors, vicious when they need to be, and will, along with the cockroaches most likely, still be here long after everyone else has gone.

Yet despite how gruesome the boy appears, his physical injuries turn out to be largely superficial, able to be cleaned away and stitched up. Nothing that a little time and aspirin won’t eventually heal.

The boy is noticeably subdued, allowing the Doctor to tend to him in silent submission, not even flinching at the sting of rubbing alcohol on his open cuts. Still in shock, the Doctor thinks. It isn’t until he’s snipped the last bit of thread on the stitches and is washing up when the boy speaks.

“Don’t know if I ever killed a man before.” The words emerge without preamble, spoken with a dull flatness. “But you was right.”

“You do it to survive,” the Doctor says softly, even though he wonders if such words would even help. “That’s the important thing.”

“I must’ve been in a lot of fights before. It was like I knew what to do before I even thought about it. Tried not doing anything at all. But he kept coming at me and he wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t listen to me neither. And then I knew what he knew.”

The boy’s features crumple as he bows his head. His shoulders shake. His grief beats against the quiet in a staccato rhythm.

“It was either gonna be him or me.”

He usually politely ignores the rare crack in the walls his patients must build around themselves. He pretends to not hear and then he pretends they never happened. Usually they’re grateful for it, and everyone is relieved when the moment has passed.

Why is it now, then, that he should feel the unexpected urge to lend more comfort than he has ever even wanted to before? How his hands twitch and how his body almost starts forward, as if to enfold, embrace, and envelop? That he is to be made acutely aware of an absence in his arms.

Perhaps it is the boy’s youth and all the naivety it entails. That the life of one so young would be over before it had ever really begun.

“Maybe I was a bad person before,” the boy says between breaths. “Maybe I deserve this.”

He clenches his fists to keep them still. “A wise man once said the only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.”

And in spite of everything, the boy faintly smiles. “Not here they don’t.”

“No, perhaps not,” the Doctor concedes. He finally relaxes once he thinks the threat of his body’s rebellion is over, but he’s already made a mistake, coming to stand so close to the boy in an ill-begotten act of half-removed comfort, and when the his guard drops, his hand comes up seemingly of its own mind to rest gently on the boy’s uninjured shoulder.

What a wonder it is that the boy doesn’t tense up as expected, but leans into it instead. The boy smells primal, of copper and sweat. Heat emanates from his glistening skin.

 

_____

 

This time when he runs into the boy outdoors in the darkest hours of the night, he doesn’t ask questions. The boy doesn’t glare at him in resentment. Their steps slow when they see each other. The boy looks like a pallid wraith beneath the dim silver moonlight, his healing injuries like wisps of shadows crawling across his face, but the Doctor is gratified to see that he’s moving easily, largely unbothered by pain.

“Can’t sleep?” the boy asks.

“No. Needed to stretch your legs?”

“Yeah.” The boy fidgets, idly scratching a healing abrasion on his jaw, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His gaze travels everywhere, the impenetrable shadowy corners, the silhouette of treetops, the star-studded sky, but always comes back to him like homebase. “I’m….”

This time, the Doctor waits, saying nothing.

“I feel like…I’ve got to do something, you know? There’s something I was supposed to do and I can’t remember.”

 _Ghosts_ , the Doctor has heard the other fighters call the phenomenon. Imprints of memories now gone. They are particularly virulent in the newly arrived. In time, should the fighter live long enough, those half-conscious stirrings would fade. He can’t even recall his own anymore, and perhaps they were all wiped away with the head injury, but sometimes, maybe, he thinks his perpetual sleeplessness has to mean something deeper. But he’d drive himself mad trying to vainly pursue it, so he doesn’t.

“You should try and let it go,” he advises to the boy. “It will make things easier in the long run if you only focus on keeping yourself alive.”

“But what if it was important?” The boy looks back at him with a kind of naked desperation. “To have still stayed with me even after whatever the fuck they did to my brain?”

“And even if it was, what could you do about it now?”

“I would fight like hell for it, that’s what I’d do!” The boy is angry again, skin flushing red, eyes sparking bright even in the darkness. “How can you just roll over and let them walk all over you like this?”

In the face of the angry accusation, the Doctor unbuttons one of the cuffs of his shirt and begins rolling it up. Centimetre by centimetre, the pale skin of his forearm is revealed, smooth, only lightly covered in hair, and would have been otherwise completely ordinary but for the large, puckered scarring from a brand burned into it.

He hears the boy suck in a sharp breath.

“Souza’s mark, or so I am told,” the Doctor says dispassionately, like the limb does not belong to him. “My back is a mess of scarring from hundreds of lashes, as are my feet, my legs, my chest…I used to be like you once. I’ve learned better since then.”

The boy swallows and meets his eyes. “How long have you been here?”

“I don’t know. But whatever life I had before, I’ve had to let it go. This is the only life I know now. You should do the same, the sooner, the better. It will save you a significant amount of grief in the long run.”

 

_____

 

There are more fights, more medical visits. Sometimes the boy is lucky and gets away with only minimal damage. Sometimes he does not.

The Doctor’s skills are limited, but so are his supplies. He does his best to set broken bones to right, to sterilise as much as possible and stitch up cleanly, to deal out antibiotics as strictly as necessary, and painkillers even more so.

Sometimes even that much isn’t enough, as evidenced by the boy’s infection-flushed face. His hair is darkened with sweat. His eyes roll in his head. Unintelligible mutterings slip from his chapped lips. His whole body is overheated, seeping precious fluids from its pores it cannot afford to lose. The Doctor wishes he had a basin large enough to completely submerge the boy in ice water, but he can only make do with replacing the several strategically placed bags of ice across his body as fast as they melt.

Usually when an injury or condition is greater than any of these things, the Doctor retracts his efforts, simply writes them off as a lost cause and preserves his remaining supplies for when and where they’ll have greater impact.

But he does not do that now.

“This ain’t that kind of movie, bruv,” the boy says, opening his glazed eyes half way, staring dully at the Doctor.

“Are you awake?” the Doctor asks, trying to keep his voice free of all the confusing and heavy emotions that push against the inside of his chest, that make him feel like he’s running out of time, and something precious is slipping from his grasp. He’s never felt panic before, not in the span of time he can remember, and the sensation now is horribly unsettling.

The boy just stares at him, but doesn’t really see him, caught up in his fever dreams. “Why did you leave me?”

“I didn’t,” the Doctor says, though he knows he’s only responding to nonsense.

“Didn’t?”

“No.”

The boy slowly closes his eyes, momentarily satisfied, but the serenity only lasts for but a few breaths. “You always leave. You always leave me.”

“No,” the Doctor refutes again, reaching out to take one of the boy’s hands, turning the palm up to keep the bag of ice against the pulsepoint of his wrist. “I’m here. I’m always here.”

The boy begins to weep softly, as if the Doctor’s words had made little difference. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” the Doctor says again, more firmly this time. He leans forward, using his other hand to brush back the wet fringe from the boy’s hot and clammy forehead. “I won’t if you promise not to leave me either.”

This reversal of fortune seems to take the boy aback. “Am I dying?”

“No,” the Doctor says, insistent, like he could will the boy’s body to obey him through sheer determination alone. It hadn’t occurred to him before, but now it’s important, somehow, that this boy stay alive. He knows this like he knows that gravity will keep him anchored to this earth and the sky is blue. “Because you’re going to promise me you won’t, do you understand? Promise me.”

“Okay.”

“Say it.”

It takes several moments for the boy to remember how, eyelids sluggishly opening and closing as he begins tumbling back towards unconsciousness. “I promise.”

When the boy is out, the Doctor sags, whatever energy animating him previously all but drained. He’s out of remedies and skill and luck. This is all he has left to go on now.

 

_____

 

But it works.

Or rather, the boy is strong and young. His body wins the battle this time. 

The fever breaks. The infection goes into retreat.

The Doctor sends the boy back down to his bed to sleep through the rest of his recovery.

He ignores the continuous trembling in his hands.

 

_____

 

It is a long, long time before he sees the boy again. Or maybe it just feels that way.

“Hey,” the boy greets him softly, still pale and thin, but stronger. Living.

There’s something about the very physical presence of the boy beneath the full moon that drives home all the days of his absence. How perilously close the boy had been to death. The Doctor finds himself having sorely missed him, like coming across a feast and realising how starving he had been.

There is no conscious thought, just a slow, inexorable gravitation into the boy’s orbit until they are pressed up and rubbing against each other like two cats, heat and something like electricity singing across his skin. The boy smells like the cheap, abrasive soap from a recent wash, but it’s swiftly dulling beneath the light sheen of sweat that accumulates on his skin, of the damp earth around them, of himself.

In the shadows, he tips the boy’s face up towards his. His lips find the boy’s chin first, feels the light prickle of unevenly shaved hair scraping against his skin, the way the boy’s jaw clenches and unclenches, a tick that jumps in the dimple of his cheek.

He feels the tip of the boy’s nose against his own face, the wet corner of the boy’s partly open mouth sliding along his jaw, the way his plump bottom lip drags along it. A puff of warm, moist breath tickles his skin. Beneath his fingers, the boy’s pulse races, fast as a bird’s.

For the first time that he can remember, he wants. It’s a longing that makes him feel empty and ravenous, painful in its intensity, but ameliorated by the way the boy moulds his body into him, every breathy moan that rises from his bobbing throat, and finally, finally quenched when the boy’s lips find his and his mouth opens up and lets him in, wet heat and a solid body and the addictive sensation of finding and holding another.

 

_____

 

He can’t remember the last time he’s had sex. He’s old enough now that such preoccupations don’t consume so much of his waking thoughts as they probably had in his twenties. The boy, however, is a lit match in that previously dark and forgotten realm.

Laid out on his bed, naked as the day the Doctor first saw him, but this time he’s awake and flush with desire, nipples pebbled in the air with a little tweaking, pupils blown wide, and cock full and red against his flat stomach, leaving a widening pool of precome smeared just beneath his navel.

The Doctor keeps those red lips otherwise engaged with his own, tongues gliding against each other, as his hand slowly works the boy’s cock in maddeningly slow strokes, feeling the hot skin slide over the thick and rigid column of flesh, a steel like stiffness encased by soft heat. His palm gathers the beading moisture at the tip and uses it to slick the journey back down, and soon it all becomes an easy, wet glide.

Ariose moans stutter each kiss until the boy’s mouth grows entirely lax and his whole body coils tensely beneath his building climax. The sharp scent of sex is acrid; the boy’s panting in his ear is loud and high-pitched, desperate. His fingers dig into the Doctor’s scarred back and his hips keep thrusting up frantically, fucking up into the Doctor’s tight fist until he cries out sharply into the Doctor’s mouth and his spine draws taut as a bow string, spilling out all over his hand in hot, sticky spurts.

His own hardness beats against the confines of his trousers, teased occasionally by his own palm, just to feel the pleasant jolt in the fog of all his ardour.

“I could blow you,” the boy says, finally reopening his eyes, a slur of words in his post-climax daze. “I’d like that, you in my mouth.”

“While that thought is very appealing,” and oh, how it so very much is, staring down into those kiss-swollen, stained lips now, envisioning his cock sliding between them, “I’m afraid I haven’t got any supplies.”

“Ever the health-conscious doctor.” The boy laughs breathlessly and throws an arm over his face, but then seems to think better of it a moment later, removing his arm and arching a brow. “Want me to give you a hand then?”

“You should probably be getting back before you’re missed.”

“It would be rude of me to leave you with all the mess.” There is a devious gleam in the boy’s gaze as he sits up and straddles the Doctor’s legs, fleshy thighs laid out alongside his. “‘Sides, I can be quick.”

Taking the Doctor’s lack of further protests as agreement, the boy’s clever fingers work at the his trousers to free his straining erection, closing over it in a combat-callused palm. It feels terribly good, maybe just a little too dry, but still hot and marvelously tight, and it is still pressure that is not his own, touching him with the intent to only bring pleasure. The Doctor’s eyes flutter shut of their own accord as he gives in to the rhythmic strokes, only to open them again when the boy picks up his sticky, come-stained hand and begins to suck each of his fingers clean, like he were giving the Doctor a taste of what he was missing otherwise had he not been so devoted to scrupulousness.

It doesn’t take long to come, not with how long it’s been, the relentless hand wanking him off, and the utterly erotic sight above him. His vision whites out, and he thinks he makes some sort of embarrassing noise that is quickly swallowed down by the boy’s mouth. The Doctor can taste come on his tongue. It’s not in the least sanitary, but he finds himself grabbing onto the boy’s face to keep him there and plunder every last essence of it in his mouth anyway.

He feels melded to his bed afterwards, only latently aware of how the boy has cuddled up to him instead of gathering his clothes and leaving to rejoin his fellow fighters. The Doctor should be alarmed by that, should be more stern in insisting the boy leave, should strive for more psychological distance. Protect himself. Protect the boy.

But he can’t find it in himself to kick him out.

 

_____

 

The next time he’s accumulated enough leftover change after purchasing his requisite medical supplies, the Doctor only spares the bookshop a brief, rueful glance through the windows of the _farmacia_ before discreetly adding condoms and lubrication to his purchases.

They’ve vowed to be selective with penetration, but using the first condom is worth it, he thinks, when the boy has him bend over his own exam table and fucks him hard enough to shift the whole thing across the floor with every thrust. 

The second one, too, when the first is hastily switched out so he can fall to his knees not minutes after his own completion to have the boy come down his throat, desperate fingers clawing roughly through his hair.

 

_____

 

He forgets, though, that the longer they carry on with this means the longer the boy emerges from his fights as a victor, means he soon rises to enough prominence for Souza to take notice.

“They gonna start taking me on the overseas circuit,” the boy says when they are lying next to each other on the Doctor’s bed, soiled tissues used for hasty cleaning dropped to the floor, bodies still cooling from drying sweat.

“It’s where the real money is made,” the Doctor automatically replies before the implications sink in. “I don’t…I’m based here. I don’t ever leave the compound unless it’s a supply run.”

The boy raises his head to look at him in alarm. “You don’t get to come with me?”

The Doctor shakes his head. “Souza travels with his own physician. A real one who’s more qualified to look after his prized fighters.”

“Then that’s that, I guess.” The boy swallows, blinks rapidly, and looks away. The Doctor must be imagining the way his hold tightens, but he clings back just as much. “Will I ever see you again?”

The likely answer is no, he won’t. The boy will fight and fight until he’s taken out, and the Doctor will never know when or how. Will never know the boy’s fate. Will never see him again, no.

“I was once like you,” he tells the boy instead. “That means…that means one day you could be like me.” _You could be with me_ , goes unspoken.

It’s not at all true, and they both know it, but the boy sighs and settles down into the lie anyway.

 

_____

 

The Doctor is alone in his bed when he wakes up. The floor has been cleaned up, the window left open to air out the scent of sex. Mosquitoes buzz at the corners of the room. A lizard skitters across the wall.

In spite of the humidity hanging in the air, he feels cold and bereft. The feeling paralyses him. He can’t find the will to move, to get up and start the day.

For the first time in his life, he feels discontent. No, he feels _angry_.

So much taken from him, and he’s accepted his lot in life. Did his job. Obeyed. Did not rebel or try to escape. Then some boy steamrolls into his life and completely upends it, tears down his walls, makes him feel. Makes him want and want and want.

Wanting means losing. He’d forgotten that important lesson, and now he is losing all over again.

The boy promised to never leave him. He _promised_ , and—

And it doesn’t matter. None of it did. Sooner or later, the boy is going to die in some dirty, bloody fight somewhere else in the world, in pain and alone. The Doctor is going to die alone here.

 

_____

 

He is more tempted to drink the bottle of whiskey instead of use it to sterilise his equipment, but he’d get punished for it. As it is, everything he’s done today has taken monumental effort. His limbs feel heavy, his mind sluggish. His thoughts can’t quite connect to the rest of his body anymore.

There’s a scar on his temple. He doesn’t know how he got it. They say it’s from his head injury, but the Doctor knows that no fist or foot could have caused this pattern of scar

A bullet wound, he can only conclude, which somehow miraculously did not kill him.

When he starts to look for them beneath all the damage his captors had inflicted upon his body, he starts to see other anomalies: scars that bear resemblance to the boy’s, that he never really thought about, as he had made it a point to never look at himself for too long.

He always wondered how he dealt with his ghosts, and now he knows. He never looked at them head on.

 

_____

 

The Doctor sees the boy, presumably for the last time, when he bursts into his room without knocking. There’s a frantic energy about him, something alive and kinetic.

“What are you doing?” the Doctor asks, relieved he hadn’t been treating a patient. It would have caused attention, the boy showing up here for no apparent reason. There would be questions and scrutiny.

“You got pliers, yeah?” the boy asks instead of answering him.

“What?”

“It’s my tooth! Had a fake one. Cap must’ve got knocked out but the cover’s still intact. I…think there’s something in there, and I need you to help me get it out.”

“You’re insane.”

The boy scowls at him. “Look, I know it sounds…mental. I know it does. But something’s been eating at me this whole time. Something I needed to do. This is it, don’t you see?” 

There is an urgent plea in the boy’s eyes, one that the Doctor cannot harden his heart to, try as he might. “For the record, I still think you’re insane.” But he moves to the drawer and retrieve his thin needle-nose pliers anyway. “Lay down on the table and tilt your head back.”

The boy readily does as he asks, and for a moment, the Doctor struck by the memory of him only a week earlier, legs thrown over his shoulders, crying out throatily with each sharp plow into his arse. If he’s more forceful in prying open the boy’s jaw because of it, he can at least excuse it as annoyance over this whole foolish charade.

He examines the empty gap where the molar had been, now covered in gums, but a little prodding with the tips of his pliers lends some credence to the boy’s claim: there’s something very hard and foreign beneath the surface. “If I do this,” he says to the boy, “It’s going to hurt. I don’t exactly have novocaine.”

“Just do it,” the boy says around his fingers.

So the Doctor does, cutting into the surface of the boy’s gums to knock against something hard and possibly metallic. Surprisingly, after getting a good grip around the top of the thing and yanking down hard, the whole thing comes out very easily, like it had meant to.

What he pulls out of the boy’s mouth turns out to be a small metal capsule. A little more encouragement from his pliers cracks the thing open to reveal a small white tablet.

“That’s it,” the boy breathes as he sits up, plucking the tablet from the Doctor’s hand. “This is what I’ve been looking for all along. It’s the key to everything.”

But before he can pop it into his mouth, the Doctor snatches his wrist to stop him, suddenly filled with a dread he can’t name. “Don’t.”

The boy frowns. “What? Why?”

“You’ve been in several fights before. Fights with dangerous weapons. You’re an excellent fighter and…and you have a hidden compartment in your tooth that contains a tablet. You must know how this looks. This could be…this could be your death, don’t you see?”

“What, you think this is some sort of…what, cyanide?” The boy gives him and the tablet in his hand an incredulous look. “Like I was…was some sorta spy or summat? Me?”

“I know that sounds ridiculous, but isn’t all of this?” He doesn’t know why he’s so frantic now, but he the possibility of the boy biting down on a capsule that would spell his immediate death is terrifying. “Please don’t do this. Don’t do something dangerous.” 

The boy covers his hand and squeezes. “I’m not. I swear it. Something inside me tells me this is right. This is what I’m supposed to do,” he says softly. “Do you trust me?”

The Doctor doesn’t know, doesn’t know if he’s ever trusted anyone in his life. He certainly hasn’t here. But the boy is regarding him with solemn eyes, and he is so sure, so confident in this, the Doctor can’t help but miserably nod anyway despite the fear bubbling up in his chest. “And if you do end up dying?”

“It wasn’t going to be much of a life without you anyway.” The boy gently pries his wrist from the Doctor’s grip and brings the tablet to his mouth, popping it into his mouth and wincingly crunching down on it. “God, that’s awful.”

The Doctor holds his breath, waiting for the inevitable death spasms, but nothing happens.

“See?” the boy says. “Not cyanide. Probably not any sort of poison, right? I mean, if it were, it would be better if it were fast-acting.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” the Doctor snaps, itching to shove charcoal down the boy’s throat and force him to throw it all back up.

Together, they wait.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

Half an hour goes by like that.

“Well?” the Doctor asks with a touch of impatience. He’s been walking a tightrope this whole time, anxiously scrutinising the boy for any hint of failing health. “What did you expect to happen?”

“I don’t know!” The boy is visibly frustrated, growing more so with each passing minute. He runs a rough hand through his hair and grinds his teeth, wincing at the sharp ache that shoots through his jaw. “Something! Maybe I just need a catalyst. Something to spark…something….”

The boy looks up at the Doctor then. There’s determination in his eye, that hint of fury and rebellion the Doctor had glimpsed on that first day all those months ago.

Only instead of striking out at him, the boy draws them together instead, kissing him with a concentrated sort of ferocity, full of inelegance and resolution, bending him to its will so that he forgets, momentarily, their circumstances: their imminent and permanent separation, the boy’s possible grisly end, his own long, slow, interminable one. It’s just this and just them, a moment he wishes he could fall into and stay in forever.

A moment he doesn’t want to let go of, but the boy is slowly pulling away, relinquishing the kiss. When the Doctor opens his eyes, it’s like he’s looking at a different person.

The man staring back at him has sea-coloured eyes that are reddening by the second, filling with tears. The expression on his face reflects shock and shattered joy.

“I remember you now.”

He raises his hand and touches the Doctor’s face in wonder. “Harry.”

And that’s his name.

Harry knows it to be so like he knows gravity will keep him anchored to the earth and the sky is blue and that he loves this man. He knows and loves him, somehow.

The man smiles beautifully. It causes the tears in his eyes to spill over his cheeks. “I remember everything.”

Harry wishes the man would tell him his name too, but he supposes that can wait, because the light in the man’s eyes turns sharp and feral. Dangerous. “And now I know what I gotta do.”


	24. hartwin - homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on news coming out of the Kingsman 2 trailer. SPOILERS for Kingsman: The Golden Circle.

He wakes up with a raging migraine and a missing eye.

They inform he was found lying outside a hate group church in Kentucky with a new, unwelcome hole in his head. How he survived is anyone’s best guess. He’s spent the last four months in a medically induced coma.

Then they ask him who he is. He goes to open his mouth to answer, because it seems like a reasonable enough question, only to close it when he realises he _doesn’t know_.

“ _Shit_ ,” he says, and then pauses. “Oh, I’m British.”

The woman, Ginger, who’s apparently spent the most time with him thus far, even when he’s mostly been unconscious, arches a brow sceptically, like she can’t believe he isn’t putting on an act. “Security tapes show you were definitely the cause of death for most of them people inside that church, honey. Whoever you are, you’re not some banker.”

It turns out the identification found on his person, claiming him to be one Henry DeVere, a name which sits on him like an ill-fitting shirt, is entirely fictional. There was an empty gun holster found under his very expensive bespoke suit and they suspect the bizarre modified shotgun pistol found on the church premises belonged to him. There was metal found in his oxfords that turned out to be a toxin-laced switchblade knife. His glasses, though now irreparably broken, had a receiver in them. Also, his ring emitted a 50.000 volt electric charge.

Suffice to say, Ginger has enough reason to be wary.

But he can’t help them. He has nothing to say and no explanation for the incongruous things he’d been carrying. They show him the tape of himself just…slaughtering all those people. It’s like watching a stranger do those things. While certainly nauseating, he doesn’t feel personally connected to it. He doesn’t remember _anything_.

They don’t let him go.

“Let’s just call you our guest for the time being,” Ginger suggests.

“You mean prisoner. You’re holding me prisoner.”

Ginger shrugs. “But doesn’t _guest_ sound so much nicer?”

The thing is, for as little as they know about him, he could very well say the same about them, and not just because of the memory loss. They don’t feel like any sort of official agency he’s familiar with like the FBI or CIA (somehow, he knows what the FBI and CIA feel like, which is rather concerning). They’re a little too…loose. Too relaxed about protocol. Even if they _are_ American.

Every time he asks, he gets the same damn answer: absolute silence.

But he notices things. He notices that strange little _S_ logo on all their bewildering accessories (a lasso rope? Is he being kept on a ranch?). They are concerned about him because they must deal in the same business he once had, that is to say, and there’s nothing for it, as ridiculous and absurd as this whole thing has been ever since he woke up from a mortal injury: espionage.

That, or this is his dying brain dreaming up some fantastical scenario at the end of what was probably an otherwise very boring, mundane life. Because only a very boring, mundane person would think having a missing eye and being kept in a windowless room all day, everyday, for God knows how long it’s been, is fantastic.

No, forget dreams. This is a waking nightmare.

It’s _boring_. His room is small and squarish, not more than four six paces across and four lengthwise. There’s a single bed, a toilet, a sink, a shower, and a mirror inlaid into the wall. _Not just a mirror_ , his suspicious mind supplies. The lights go off when they want him to sleep and abruptly snap on when they want him to be awake. He gets served three meals a day of questionable nutritional quality. He could really kill for a good stiff scotch.

Well, perhaps not in so many words.

When he isn’t being taken out of his cell and marched down a windowless hallway to another windowless room for the occasional interrogation (“Do you remember anything yet?” “No.”), medical checkup ("How are the migraines?” “Still bloody awful.”), or haircut (“Your hair is coming in grey at the temples here, it looks very distinguished.” “Thank you.” His captors are very courteous and understand the value of good grooming), they let him read books, but he has to ask for specific titles and it takes some time between a request and whenever they can bother fetching them for him.

Days must pass.

At first, he resists the cliche of marking them (if indeed he has been put on a 24-hour timetable) on the wall and then does it anyway because he’d go mad otherwise. But only in the bit of wall behind his mattress so it’s not so obvious.

Soon one tally becomes five, becomes ten, becomes a _hundred_. Two-hundred. Two-fifty.

“Recall any new memories?”

“No.”

It also becomes increasingly obvious that, whatever he had been a part of before, whatever friends and allies he had, or coworkers, even _enemies_ , no one is coming for him. No one is missing him.

That realisation is surprisingly, _stunningly_ painful.

Because sometimes he thinks he almost remembers them. Dreams of them and forgets them immediately upon waking. Vague impressions of faces and heartbroken eyes. Sometimes he can almost hear a plaintive voice, but not the words, just the mournful quality of it. Sometimes he thinks he can see the edge of a cocky smile out of the corner of his eye and it will cause his heart to beat faster, or he’ll find himself half-turning to fondly regard someone who isn’t there. It feels like a punch to the gut every time.

Like a phantom limb, their absence aches.

The tallies stretch across the wall, and the sheer span of time they symbolise is _infuriating_. Is this to be the rest of his existence, being haunted by fading impressions, regarded with suspicion and vague annoyance by his captors, and reading dog-eared, tattered copies of _War and Peace_ and (from a request made once in a moment of pique) _Crime and Punishment_? If so, then he wishes he had the good sense to have died beneath that hot Kentucky sun.

“Do you know who you are now?”

“Fuck off.”

He spends a liberal amount of time simply staring at himself in the mirror, at the deep lines on his face, the bags under his eyes, the increasing pallor of his skin, the waxing curtain of skin beneath his soft jaw, the grey in his thinning hair, and the empty socket that had once housed his left eye. He doesn’t even know how old he is, he just knows he’s old and getting older faster than ever. His build is lanky, but the hard, angular lines he had once, both from some sort of rigourous prior training and then the lengthy coma, are all but gone from being so sedentary for so long. He has a soft middle, a paunch. God, he has _tits_ now. He’s starting to actually resemble the pudgy, just-past-middle-aged banker his initial tailored suit had originally suggested him to be.

With each passing day, he feels like the fragmented and scattered pieces of himself float further and further away.

“How’s tricks?”

He glares at her now in response.

Ginger grins, unrepentant, but there’s a tightness around her eyes. “We’re patient people, hun. We can outlast you.”

“Don’t you think if I knew anything, I would have said so by now?” he asks irritably.

“You’re stubborn. You’re _good_. Well, you were once.”

That galls him more than anything, the reminder of his slow decay in this place. “Even if I did know something and were merely refusing to tell you, then you ought to know by now I’ll never talk. Why not kill me and get it over with?”

“You know who also talks like that?” Ginger leans forward across the table. “People who are on the verge of breaking.”

In some ways, she’s right. He’s broken, but up until now there had been some small piece of him that had been kept intact, holding him together, keeping him sane. It’s been slowly eroding, though, day by day. There’s barely anything left now. He feels the emptiness inside himself.

Eventually, he realises what that piece of him had been. _Hope_.

Another hundred tallies go up on the wall.

It’s been over a year. He doesn’t exist. He is no one at all.

Such as it is, the days become automated. _He_ becomes automated.

Wake up.

Piss.

Shower.

Put on a new set of equally bland grey sweats, of which he’s been given several pairs to rotate out through the week.

Comb his hair. (He used to grimace at the way his hair curled as it dried, now he doesn’t give a shit.)

Shave. (It’s a cheap, disposable safety razor that never does a good job, but it’s better than nothing.)

Eat breakfast. (He’s never hungry, doesn’t taste anything anymore. He eats merely to stay alive and to, say, prevent them from ever coming in and shoving a feeding tube up his nose.)

Sit on the bed and stare into nothing (He doesn’t know how long this lasts: minutes? Hours?)

If he snaps out of it before breakfast, he’ll read for a bit, until lunch is served.

Afternoon is more of the same.

Dinner.

Lights out.

Sleep. Start it all up again the next day. Wash, rinse, repeat.

At some point, he forgets to keep tally.

Sometimes he wakes up in the pitch dark of the sleep cycle and can’t remember if he had actually woken up the day before. Sometimes his body will deeply ache, like he had spent the entire day in bed, even when the lights had come on.

Sometimes he can’t even remember what’s happened between the time the lights are switched on, and when they are switched on again. Whole days, gone. Swallowed up like the rest of him.

Ginger regards him quietly for several long moments. Her eyes are big and brown and soft, seemingly vulnerable. Doe-eyed, would have been the term. He bets she uses them to great effect, luring in the unsuspecting, disarming them before going in for the kill.

“Are you ready to talk now?” she gently asks, like she truly understands. She knows he’s been having a rough time of it. She looks like she only wants to help him now.

“I’m a spy,” he tells her. “I work for an independent secret agency that operates at the highest levels of discretion, operating out of London. Our primary mission is to keep the world safe.”

She nods encouragingly, but doesn’t look surprised. “Okay. That’s good, honey. That’s real good. What’s the name of your organisation? What do you call yourself?”

He thinks about the _S_ imprinted on all their items. He thinks about the letter _K_ as well, for some reason.

“The Queen’s men,” he says after a moment. “For Queen and country, as you know. When the monarch is male, we thus become the King’s.”

“And what’s your name?”

That one is harder to make up an answer for, because he hasn’t been spending a lot of time thinking about himself of late. And certainly not who he had been. The problem, too, is that any name he’d give them would have to be verified and of course none of his would check out.

“It doesn’t even matter anymore. There are no records of my existence,” he says instead. “Once you become a part of the agency, you cease to exist.”

Her eyes narrow just a fraction. The veneer is stretching a bit thin. Careful. “What do people call you then?”

His tongue sticks in his mouth. He thinks about that voice whose words he can never discern. He tries to think of a name, something that falls between ridiculous and sensible. It’s his dream after all.

“Arthur.”

Ginger’s brows fly up. “Arthur.”

“After the legendary one.”

“King Arthur?”

“Certainly not Arthur Weasley.”

“So you call yourself King Arthur?” Ginger asks again as if needing to confirm it.

“Well, not the _King_ part. That would rather go against the whole rank of being servants of Her Majesty, but the rest of it, yes. Our code names are Arthurian. We’re very British like that.”

“Uh huh.” He’s tipped his hand, and she’s not buying it, not if the look on her face is anything by which to judge.

Ah well, it had been a fun exercise while it lasted. He’s taken back to his cell.

More lights going out, flipping back on.

The words on the pages of his books begin to blur. He gives up on reading altogether when he catches himself trying to read the same sentence for the twentieth time, and still not able to recall what it had been.

 _I’m dying_ , he thinks. _This is a slow death_.

It comes as a great shock when he’s dragged out of his cell for a second time in as many weeks (at least he thinks it’s weeks, it could very well have been months, he just knows that the time between his little interrogations is significantly shorter than it has been in the past). Ginger is staring at him with a far sharper gaze than she’s ever given him before.

“Funny thing about your story, _Arthur_. Your clothes when you’d been brought in, they were from some tailor shop in London, right? _Kingsman_. At first we thought you were just lying again, but then we looked into it. Studied who came and went. That’s when things got interesting.”

Though trying not to show it, he is, admittedly, a little confused now. He _had_ been lying. This Kingsman tailor is news to him too.

“Someone went to a lot of trouble of blowing the entire joint to hell,” Ginger continues. “There was another massive explosion just outside the city too. Exact same time. Don’t think it was a coincidence. Now why someone would want to blow up some tailor shop and some rich old country estate?”

“Because they weren’t just a tailor shop,” he breathes, knowing as soon as he says it that it’s true. _Kingsman_. He grasps onto it like a lifeline, repeats it over and over again in his head. He has a home.

Well, he _did_.

“Was…” he tries to think, to process, but the implication of what Ginger’s said hits him all at once. _Explosions_. _Massive_. He had a home once, and now it’s gone, just like him. Fuck. _Fuck_. “Did anyone survive?”

Ginger shakes her head. “Remains to be seen. Lot of bodies, though. They’re still pulling them out of the rubble. MI6 is doing their level best to clean some things up that the good public shouldn’t know.”

“So they’re all gone,” he hears himself say, but it no longer feels like himself talking, like he is falling deeper and deeper inside himself, until he is only occupying a small sliver of his body, significantly diminished. “Everything is gone.”

Something flashes across Ginger’s face too quick to discern. “Hey, Arthur? They’re still looking, alright? We’re getting to the bottom of this. We have some suspicions as to who did it. Seems your organisation and mine have some common enemies.”

There’s something funny about her voice. It grows distant, distorted, like she’s speaking from far away and then under water. Instead, a dull roar of pulsing blood builds up in his ears, beginning with an irritating crackle and then a flood of static, like someone’s knocked a receiver askew.

“It’s not my organisation. Not anymore,” he thinks he says, but he can barely hear his own voice.

 _Alone_ , he thinks. _You are truly alone_.

“Arthur?”

 _Everything is gone_. 

“Arthur?”

“Arthur?”

 _You are gone_.

  


  


  


  


On some day, a day he does not know or particularly cares about, he wakes up and rubs the uninjured side of his face. They’ve given him an eyepatch. Ginger says it makes him look rakish. Surely he was fulfilling some boyhood dream of being a pirate.

He just thinks he looks old and decrepit.

Ironically, just as he’s lost everything, they loosen his restrictions. He gets to go outside for a bit now, a few hours per day, weather permitting. It’s always hot and sticky. He’s been living in some massive old distillery in the middle of fucking nowhere. The old faded sign on the building reads _Statesman Whiskey_. The air smells buttery sweet. Every time he inhales it, his mouth waters.

But it must be poor weather today, because he does not get to go out. Instead, he performs his ablutions with a tired hand and half-hearted motions. Piss. Shower. Change. Comb. Shave. Maybe he ought to grow a beard. It would be something different. On the other hand, every activity he lets go of is another act of giving up. One less tether keeping him to this world, he instinctively knows.

The moment he starts thinking about not getting up at all will be the moment he will smash his fist into that mirror as hard as he can, grab a shard of the broken glass, and slice into his carotid artery. He’ll bleed out faster than anyone will be able to save him if he cuts deep enough. And he knows how to make it deep.

There’s a knock on the door that acts as a two-second warning before someone will open it. They have never waited for his consent, which irks him. He ignores whoever it is that enters as he rinses the last of the shaving foam from his face and grabs a towel to pat his still coarse skin dry.

“ _Harry_.”

The voice isn’t Ginger’s. It cuts through him like a hot knife.

He turns around and comes face to face with a, well, a _boy_. Young, no older than his mid-twenties surely.

But his eyes. _His eyes_.

Wide, green and shining with unshed tears. He’s seen those eyes before. He knows them. By God, he’s been haunted by them seemingly for his whole life.

“I don’t know who you are,” he croaks, feeling utterly _shattered_ by that admission. How he’s failed. He’s failed this boy so _utterly_. He hears his voice crack. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“That’s okay,” the boy says. And then he smiles. It transforms his face, from beautiful to breathtaking. “You will.”

He says it with so much conviction, so much warmth, so much _love_ , that Harry believes him.

It feels like coming home.


	25. hartwin - next stop: househunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stubbornly optimistic take on what happens post-K2 sequel.
> 
> Needless to say: spoilers for the K2 trailer

It’s Daisy who proves to be Harry’s most reliable alarm clock these days, although he frequently wishes she came with more settings (specifically, a mute button). Her loud, unbridled squeals echo through Michelle’s house at whatever hour exists before the sun has yet to rise, inevitably followed by Michelle’s frantic shushing that has absolutely no impact whatsoever on the girl’s volume and the sound of the telly being turned on to some maniacally cheerful children’s show.  


She never fails to jolt him into full battle-ready awareness in the time it takes to blink open his eyes, and only when he gradually realises he’s not, in fact, in imminent danger does the energy abruptly drain from his body and he slowly sinks back against the mattress and the warm, oblivious sleeping body that curls around him like defencive armour.

Eggsy can sleep as undisturbed and for as long as the dead if left unchecked; right now he’s as immovable as a stone statue, keeping Harry trapped in place where he can be protected and, possibly, cannot leave again.

The guest room is modestly sized, the double bed pushed up against the wall for space. Eggsy prefers to sleep with Harry safely tucked between both it and himself, like Harry hasn’t spent more decades than Eggsy’s even been alive taking care of himself just fine, but Harry’s been indulging it for now because…well, it’s been a difficult year.

Something must be different this time, because while Eggsy doesn’t move or give any indication he’s woken up, Harry hears the snuffled, “Gobacktobedit’sfine,” into his chest and feels Eggsy’s arms tighten around his body as if to emphasise the order.

“Eggsy,” Harry says, staring up at the smooth, white ceiling. He’s still exhausted. He can feel the weight of his weariness in the very marrow of his bones. He has been ever since he first set foot upon that blasted Kentuckian soil. “Have you given any thought to my….”

“Wha?” Eggsy grunts when Harry’s voice trails off and doesn’t pick back up again.

“To finding a new place to live?”

Eggsy doesn’t say anything at first, but Harry can practically feel how the boy is frowning. “You wanna move? You don’t like it here?”

“It’s not that,” Harry assures, starting a soothing line up and down Eggsy’s spine with the hand not pinned against body. “Your mother has been very gracious. And patient. I just think that maybe she’d like her house back.”

Finally, Eggsy lifts his head to meet Harry’s gaze, blinking owlishly, hair sticking up in wild tufts, and red creases lining his face from where the fabric of Harry’s undershirt had bunched up beneath it. “Where else would you go?” he asks, sounding just a little bit lost.

Harry can’t quite blame him. Eggsy has lost so much in his life, he clings to what little remains with a ferocity that bordered on pathological. Harry’s cosy townhouse in Stanhope Mews was supposed to be a safe haven, a true homebase for Eggsy to retreat to and grow with, just as it had been for Harry.

But now that was gone, along with all the illusions it had stood for.

(That he would always be there for Eggsy. That he would never hurt him. That he could be someone Eggsy could look up to and fully trust and rely upon and—)

“Anywhere.” Maybe he lays on the optimism a tad too thick, but he’s getting tired of this perpetual shocked aftermath. He’s ready to start _living_ again. “Don’t see this as having lost our way. Look at it as…a new beginning. A fresh start.”

“A fresh start,” Eggsy echoes, a line briefly appearing between his brows before it’s all smoothed away by resignation. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any other options.” He sighs, lowering his head back against Harry’s body. “Suppose you’re right. Can’t stay here forever, though Mum would never kick you out.”

He doesn’t sound particularly happy about it, though. In fact, he sounds more miserable than ever.

Ah.

“You do realise,” Harry says, “I fully plan on taking you with me, wherever I end up.”

The silence that ensues confirms his suspicions. Bright, hopeful eyes turn back to him, that small, always a bit puckish, smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Wherever _we_ end up,” Eggsy corrects softly.

Harry finds himself mirroring the expression, craning his neck uncomfortably to lift his head to kiss the very edge of Eggsy’s forehead. He may have lost his house and his possessions, but he still had what was most important to him in all the world. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


	26. hartwin + roxlin - a dog meet-cute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the following prompt: "I wish you would write a fic where Mr. Pickle, who is a adorable sweetheart who is very much alive and in his prime, spots one of Eggsy's dogs (he has prop like 2 or 3 because it's Eggsy) while they both so happen to be walking in a park, and is in instant puppy love with them, and trots right up to Eggsy's small pack. Unbeknownst to him Harry has been instant heart eyes for Eggsy since he saw him the other day walking his dogs. Bonus points if Mr. Pickle's love interest is a larger dog breed."

“What are you doing on Saturday?” asks Merlin as soon as Harry picks up his phone.

Harry doesn’t even miss a beat. “I’ve got tickets to _Hamilton_. I’m going with Alistair. Afterwards, we’re supposed to hit a little post-dinner soiree with the cast.”

“You’re going to be at home watching _Antiques Roadshow_ with your dog again, aren’t you.” It isn’t even a question. Harry would feel insulted if it hadn’t been exactly what he’d planned.

“And what if I am? It’s a perfectly reasonable way to spend one’s evening.” He glances over at said Mr Pickle, curled up into a little ragged knot of fur against his thigh and making little wheezy noises in his sleep. “Why are you asking?”

“I’m being made to attend a dinner party with Roxy. A couple’s dinner party with all her young millennial friends. It’s going to be insufferable and I need fortification.”

“You want me to attend your smug hipster couples party as the token old queen everyone feels sorry for just because you couldn’t resist becoming a midlife crisis cliche and dating a woman half your age?”

“Harsh, but fair,” Merlin evenhandedly says, which has always been what Harry likes most about him. “Look, I’m cruel, but not that cruel, so you have to find a date.”

“Certainly. I’ll just nip down to Harrods and pick one of those up. Now if that’s all you’ve called about, then I’ll kindly bid you good—”

“I’m being serious here. When’s the last time you went out on a date, Harry?”

“Ever since you became involved in a relationship, you’ve become unhealthily obsessed with my love life.”

“Because you don’t have one,” Merlin says. “And I’m concerned. As your friend, I want you to be happy.”

“I’ll have you know I am very content right now. Mr Pickle is more than enough man for me.” He brushes his dog’s soft fur in reassurance.

“It’s statements like that which concern me most of all. I could set you up with someone,” Merlin offers. “James in LatAm Sales.”

“Goodnight, Merlin,” Harry says, ending the call before Merlin offers to take out ad space in the _Times_.

So yes, the third anniversary of the end of his last serious relationship is coming up and dates had been few and far between ever since. And yes, it might have been at least a year since he had got off with something other than his own hand, but so what? He has a nice life, regardless. He has a comfortable home, a rewarding career, bastard friends that nevertheless care for him, and a loyal furry companion who made for better company than most people he knew. For God’s sake, he doesn’t need a relationship to feel fulfilled.

So maybe he isn’t deliriously happy, and maybe sometimes he’d look at couples and his chest would experience a melancholy pang. As far as these things went, however, Harry knew he certainly fell on the more fortunate spectrum of life. Who was he to complain about that?

 

_____

 

He is never telling Merlin about the boy in the park, though.

There isn’t even much to tell. He’s never spoken to the boy. They haven’t even made eye contact. Harry hasn’t even been within 20 feet of him. As far as he’s aware, the boy doesn’t even know he exists.

Which is absolutely fine, because it means Harry can walk Mr Pickle around the park in peace and appreciate how astoundingly beautiful the boy is from afar without feeling like a pervert.

Well, without feeling like too much of a pervert.

There’s no harm in looking, at any rate.

The boy must be in his early 20s at most and seems to be in possession of three comically sized dogs: a Pug, a Corgi, and perhaps most bewildering of all, a Great Dane. From his casual observances—not eavesdropping—they appear to be named JB, Chloe, and Nina, respectively.

He doesn’t know how long the boy has actually been frequenting the park, but this is the second time Harry’s seen him in as many days because Harry doesn’t usually walk Mr Pickle at this hour. The first time had been down to an aberration on Harry’s part—he’d come home from work a bit later than usual. The second time had been, admittedly, more intentionally timed, but he told himself he actually preferred walking Mr Pickle at this hour anyway.

Even from this far away, it’s clear the boy’s love for his dogs is exuberant. He wrestles with them on the ground and lets them crawl all over him, his smile big and beaming, his peals of laughter more lovely than birdsong.

(No, Merlin must never know Harry’s thoughts have devolved into insipid metaphors.)

Harry may be just a little bit besotted.

He may be just a little bit besotted enough to not pay attention to how Mr Pickle, normally a well-behaved and non-traitorous dog, suddenly darts between his legs and then around them until he tries to take a step forward and finds himself toppling over like timber.

“Shit!”

Hitting the ground hard enough that his body won’t be thanking him later, Harry’s too winded to do much more than watch Mr Pickle scamper away in delight, his lead untethered from Harry’s slackened grip.

Fortunately, Mr Pickle doesn’t run very far.

Unfortunately, he runs straight up to the boy’s Great Dane and plops down at her feet, looking up proudly, tail wagging furiously. At first, Harry fears for Mr Pickle’s life when the Great Dane bends her head down, jaws opening as if to make a nice little snack of his little dog, but instead she just gives Mr Pickle a series of enthusiastic licks.

The boy finally notices the interloper and easily traces Mr Pickle’s trajectory back to Harry, who’s still lying in the damp grass like a muppet.

“Oi, you alright?” the boy asks, brow furrowing in concern. “This your dog, innit? Looks like him and Nina are…uh….”

Making out like horny teenagers, it would appear. Harry winces as he gingerly gets his feet back under him and limps closer. “Yes, sorry about that. He’s never done that before. It appears your large beast has incited some, uh, rather strong feelings.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” A slow grin spreads across the boy’s face and Harry’s a bit mesmerised. “I’m Eggsy, by the way. You’ve met Nina. Well, sorta. This here’s—”

“Chloe and JB,” Harry finishes without even thinking, incurring a strange look from Eggsy. Fuck. “I mean…I heard you call out to them earlier. It’s…I’m Harry. This here is Mr Pickle—”

“Mr Pickle?”

“It’s a family name,” Harry says with a perfectly straight face, and is rewarded with Eggsy’s wonderful laugh.

“That your last name then? Harry Pickle?” Eggsy asks with a gleam in his eye.

“Hart, actually. My mother was a Gherkin and while she did try to keep it _Cucumis sativus_ family, you the heart wants what the heart wants.” Harry fidgets nervously and continues to babble, “Which…in this case…was a, er, Hart.”

“Right,” Eggsy says. “You’re a strange one, ain’t you, Harry Hart?”

“Not entirely. Just…unsocialised.”

Eggsy bends down to reclaim Mr Pickle’s lead, handing it back to Harry. “Well, looks like your dog is doing the socialising bit for the two of you.”

Indeed, Mr Pickle appears to have found his true love if all the rubbing and licking he’s doing to poor Nina were any indication. Harry swears he went through obedience training with flying colours.

“I think with this stunt, we may have reached our quota for the day, so I guess I should, uh, be on my way then,” Harry says, giving a gentle tug on Mr Pickle’s lead, and when that doesn’t seem to do much, he bends down to physically scoop him up. It immediately sets off a round of high-frequency whining.

Harry wants to think the look that flashes across Eggsy’s face is disappointment, but it’s probably concern for the sounds Mr Pickle’s emitting, which make it appear like Harry’s squeezing him to death. “Hey, maybe I’ll see you around, yeah? For true love.”

Harry blinks. “Pardon?”

“Our dogs.” Eggsy waves at Mr Pickle.

“Ah, right.” _Pull it together, Hart._ “I should think so. For true love. Have a good night.”

“You too, Harry.”

Harry turns to go, tightening his grip on Mr Pickle, who is writhing so fiercely, he has to use two hands. It occurs to him that unlike his very bold dog, Harry has always just let various opportunities…pass him by for some inane reason or another. He was tired. He was late for work. The weather was off. They were all just excuses for the same thing: fear.

He doesn’t want to let this one go.

So he takes a page from Mr Pickle and turns right back round again, breathing in deeply. “I realise this may be extremely forward given we’ve only just met and my dog sexually harassed your dog, but are you free this Saturday?”

This time it’s Eggsy who is caught off guard, blinking at Harry like a deer caught in the proverbial headlights. Harry is about to apologise and inform him he had a stroke and to forget everything he’d just said when Eggsy says, “Sure.”

It’s quite possibly the most exhilarating moment of Harry’s life. His head grows light, his chest expands. He thinks he might be losing feeling in his extremities. Maybe, just maybe, there’s something to this business Merlin keeps banging on about.

And then Eggsy’s face falls, and with it, Harry’s hopes. “Oh, but I can’t. I’m busy. I’ve got a…thing.”

“Ah, I see. That’s alright. Just thought I’d ask.”

“Sorry, Harry.” And Eggsy does look truly apologetic, his face an open book. He probably genuinely is sorry for Harry because Harry is rather pitiable, isn’t he? “Perhaps another time?”

“Perhaps another time,” Harry agrees, mustering up a smile he doesn’t feel as he turns and swiftly flees the park with Mr Pickle, two equally heartbroken little creatures beaten down by the world yet again.

 

_____

 

“I can’t believe I let you drag me out to this,” Harry mutters, giving Merlin his best glare, which affects Merlin about as much as Rogaine does.

“What else have you got going on?” Merlin asks, raising his brows.

“Alright, that’s enough, you two,” Roxy says, her glare fearsome enough to cow them both into submission. “Look, none of us want to do this, but these girls were absolute bitches to me in school. We can at least have a little grace under fire. Merlin, darling, you’re here because you love and support me, and Harry, you’re here because you love and support Merlin.”

Shamefaced, they both say, “Yes, Roxy. Sorry, Roxy.”

“Good.” Mollified, Roxy shakes out her shoulders and knocks on their imminent host’s door. “Besides, Harry, it’s not as bad as it seems. I’ve invited a friend to be your date for the evening, and I think you’ll like him.”

“You…what?” Harry asks just as the door opens and a young woman with a maniacally large smile appears.

“Roxy, you’re here!” she cries out, throwing her arms around an alarmed Roxy.

“Abby!” Roxy returns, trying to match her enthusiasm but coming off like a hostage being made to read a ransom script. “Hello! Thank you for inviting us!”

Abby pulls back to take in Merlin and Harry, her pleasantness fading by several degrees. “And you brought your…dads?”

Before either Harry or Merlin can open their mouths, Roxy snakes her arms around Merlin and pulls him close. She probably has her fingers poised to jab at a kidney. “Actually, this is Merlin, my boyfriend. You remember the one I was telling you about. And this is his friend Harry. His date is coming, but he’ll be a few minutes late.”

“I see,” Abigail says in a way that means she clearly does not but is too polite to say anything about it. She seems to catch herself though and hastily steps back. “Well, nice to meet you, Merlin. Harry. We’re about to get started. Why don’t you all come in?”

“I can’t believe you set me up on a blind date for your hipster party!” Harry hisses once Abby’s taken their coats to the bedroom.

“I swear I didn’t know,” Merlin says before turning to Roxy. “Darling, Harry doesn’t really enjoy surprises. He once punched out a waiter who sprung a surprise birthday cake on him at a restaurant.”

“It was reflex!” Harry defends.

Roxy doesn’t get a chance to respond before Abby returns. “Let me take you to the others.”

The dining room is large with an equally long table made from rustic reclaimed wood, and all along it are many, many young, thin couples in skinny jeans and Free People dresses. Merlin and Harry are easily the oldest ones in the room, possible the entire block, by orders of magnitude.

Introductions are made with only minimal awkward looks, and everyone is assigned to a seat. Harry is grateful that he’s placed next to Merlin, but the seat on the other side of him remains forebodingly empty.

“So, Roxy,” Abby begins while pouring the wine. “How did you and Merlin even meet?”

Roxy visibly braces herself. “Well, funny story, actually. I was going in to have a jacket tailored and—”

A knock on the door cuts her off.

Abby frowns and stands up. “Oh, who could that be?”

“Oh, I think it’s Eggsy!” Roxy says.

“Eggsy?” Harry echoes, eyes widening in disbelief. Merlin glances at him in suspicion.

“Eggsy, my friend, yes,” says Roxy. “I know he’s…well, he’s my age, and you constantly make fun of Merlin for that, but just give him a chance, Harry. I told him all about you and he’s very keen on meeting you. He loves dogs too.”

And then Abby reappears with Eggsy in tow, sans his three dogs this time, but just as devastatingly handsome as ever. Moreso, even, in his dark green jumper that hugs his body snugly.

“Sorry, I’m late. There was a thing with Daisy and…Harry Pickle?” Eggsy says, meeting Harry’s gaze in equal shock.

“You two know each other already?” Roxy asks.

“Harry Pickle?” Merlin arches a brow.

“I…” Harry flounders, ignoring the flush creeping across his cheeks. “…we met at the park the other day.”

“Our dogs are in love,” Eggsy adds. “It was very painful separating them like that. Felt like we was the Capulets and Montagues.”

And in spite of it all, Harry finds himself matching Eggsy’s small smile.

“Isn’t it a small world?” Abby sighs, staring between Eggsy and Harry like she doesn’t know whether to sigh over them or be scandalised at their age gap.

“Yes, isn’t it just,” Harry says softly.

 

_____

 

Later, when everyone is preoccupied playing Exploding Kittens, Eggsy finds Harry hiding out on the balcony. Harry doesn’t smoke, so it doesn’t necessarily look very cool or dramatic of him to be out here so much as pathetic.

“Hi,” Eggsy says as he leans against the railing beside him. “Not one for card games then?”

“Not as such,” Harry admits. “Think they may be suited more towards winsome creatures like yourself.”

Eggsy gives him a mock scowl. “Hey, I don’t like ‘em much neither. Give me poker any day.”

Harry nods in agreement. “I like the cut of your jib.”

Its nice and companionable quiet for a moment as cars lazily idle down the road below and the rest of London is a sea of glittering lights around them.

“So this is a bit funny, innit?” Eggsy says. “You wanting to invite me to this thing as your date and me having to say no because I was apparently being blindly set up as your date for this thing.”

“There’s a certain bit of humour to the situation, I’ll admit,” Harry says. “I suppose I had thought…well. Nevermind.”

“No, what is it?” Eggsy urges, bumping his shoulder. “Come on! What?”

“I suppose I thought you were simply trying to let me down gently,” Harry confesses. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for it. I’m significantly older than you. And awkward. And my dog is uncontrollable.”

“I really wanted to see you again, Harry,” Eggsy says. “In fact, it was exactly what I was trying to make happen when I said, ‘Perhaps another time.’”

Harry frowns. “But people just say that. It means nothing. It’s just a phrase!”

“And then you just turned and ran away before I could give you my number!” Eggsy says, flapping an accusatory hand at Harry.

“I….” Harry’s mouth opens and closes for a few seconds, feeling thoroughly stupid. “I see. Oh my God, I’m such an idiot.”

“You really wasn’t joking about the unsocialised bit,” Eggsy says, but not meanly. No, if Harry isn’t mistaken, there’s even fondness there.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I’m ridiculous. I haven’t really done any of this in a…well, a really appallingly long time. And to be honest, I didn’t think I ever would again. I’m well past my prime and you’re young and disgustingly gorgeous and you own three dogs, one of which is a Great Dane, which in and of itself is a ridiculous dog to have, and—”

—and he’s cut off by Eggsy dragging him in by his shirt and kissing him. It’s very nice.

When Eggsy finally pulls back, there’s a darker glint to his eye. “You wanna get outta here? This party’s gettin’ a bit stale.”

“Oh God, yes,” Harry says immediately, still a bit dazed, and Eggsy’s kiss swollen red lips are rather distracting. “Merlin is going to kill me.”

“Roxy is going to kill _me_ ,” Eggsy replies. “Which is why I’m going to shimmy down the drainpipe from here, you’re gonna make your excuses to the party and then we’re gonna meet at that corner right there.” He points to the end of the street.

“Alright. Sounds like a solid battle pla…excuse me, you’re going to what?” Harry asks incredulously.

“Just go back inside, grab your coat—and mine too, ta—and meet me in five, alright?” Eggsy gives him an encouraging little shove towards the doors and then throws a leg over the balustrade before Harry can get in another word.

Harry makes his excuses to the party, trying to sound regretful, but probably not quite managing it if the dark look and promise of retribution Merlin gives him is any indication. No matter, he’s going to meet a handsome boy on a street corner. No, wait, that sounds entirely disgraceful.

Well, it’s a little disgraceful. There’s certainly nothing pure and innocent about the look Eggsy gives him when Harry comes into view. “Wanna come over to mine? Have a nightcap and all? I say that like I’ve got any fucking nightcaps. What I really mean is I wanna fuck your brains out. Sound alright?”

Harry considers all this. Well, he pretends to, at least. “Yes, I should think so.”

“Jolly good,” says Eggsy, giving him a cheeky wink.

 

_____

 

For the first time in a very long time, Harry wakes up wrapped around a warm body that is bigger than a water bottle and far less furry. It’s decidedly pleasant.

It’s a bit less so to have a huge overheated Great Dane plastered along his back, and two other furry piles pressing their paws against his head and feet respectively. All in a single sized bed. It’s very crowded.

Eggsy doesn’t open his eyes, but he does smile sleepily. “Puppy pile.”

“I feel like I’ve been sleeping under a fur coat,” Harry says. “JB farts in his sleep. A lot.”

Eggsy laughs, his body shaking lightly against Harry’s. “We all have our flaws.”

“Think we ought to one day add Mr Pickle to the mix?” Harry asks, only belatedly realising how that comes across, so very presumptuous, frighteningly so, and maybe Eggsy thinks this is just a one-time thing, young people do that sort of thing all the time, don’t they? In fact, now that he looks back on it, last night really did have all the hallmarks of a—

Eggsy plants his whole hand over Harry’s face, effectively stopping his trainwreck of thoughts right in their tracks. “I can hear you overthinking from here, so let me set you straight.” 

Harry grunts.

“A) Yes, we should add Mr Pickle to the mix, but we may need to give Nina and Pickle their own bed, if you know what I’m saying. Possibly their own room. Some things ain’t fit for human eyes. B) Is your bed bigger? ‘Cause that seems important. This is cosy and all, but I’m not gonna say no to a bigger bed, and c) what’s your stance on morning shags?”

Eggsy slides his hand away and lays it over his chest instead. Harry can only regard him in wonder. “I love morning shags, but not in a bed with three dogs.”

“Fair.” Eggsy leans forward and kisses him softly before his gaze turns impish. “Shower sex, it is.”


	27. gen - escape the room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt for thisbirdhadflown: _I wish you would write a fic where the Kingsman agents and staff are forced to do some boring workplace engagement that the rest of us have to do. You know, the usual suspects. Like diversity training, sexual harassment training, team building exercises, awards night or some other weird ass morale booster._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically this is how I’d imagine it would go down (borrowing heavily from B99, of course).

“God, why didn’t you stop me from thinking this was a good idea?” Harry accuses.  


Merlin sighs so much sometimes, he really ought to just make it a .wav file to play on his tablet whenever it was required. Of course, he didn’t have his tablet with him now, so it wouldn’t do much good. _No electronic and mobile devices allowed_ , the rules had stated, but Merlin interprets this to mean none of the obvious and readily identifiable ones. They’ve all still got their glasses to contact HQ and have them send in the helicopters as necessary. “I did try and stop you, but as ever, you completely ignored me.”  


“We should divide the room up between us and take inventory,” Roxy says decisively, nose to the grindstone like the good little agent she is.  


“The countdown began one minute ago, which leaves us twenty-nine minutes left. Provided you all love puzzles as much as I do, the actual problem-solving portion should go quickly, we can spend the next ten minutes doing so,” Percival adds, because he’s a _nerd_.  


“I didn’t even bring a _flask_ ,” Harry moans. “If this really were an apocalyptic scenario, I would most definitely have at least three on my person at all times.”

Eggsy bounces on the one of the twin utilitarian bunks used to decorate the room in which they were all supposedly trapped. “Hey, this one’s pretty decent. Would actually make for a decent end of the world shag.”

He thinks he’s being sly in his quick glance towards Harry, but Jesus, everyone knows of his big, stupid puppy crush.  


Merlin catches Roxy rolling her eyes, even as she keeps industriously searching through the various drawers of the room and collecting the seemingly random items they contain.

“In front of all of us?” asks Tristan, mildly scandalised. He then pales further when he realises, “Wait, it would have to _be_  with one of us….”  


“Don’t worry, Tristan,” Eggsy assures. “I’m only attracted to pretty people, so most of you are safe.”  


“Well that’s a reli…wait….”  


“You know,” Amelia says casually as she examines her nails, “I could just break into that panel over there and rewire the doors to open. It would take five minutes tops. Bet we could even create a record.”  


Merlin stares at her. “That’s completely missing the entire point of this activity.”

“I thought the point was to ‘escape the room’?”  


“It’s supposed to be a team building exercise because _someone_ ,” Merlin glares at Harry, “with one eye and apparently zero brain cells, thought it would be a good way to bond.”  


“Is anyone else even searching through their assigned section?” Roxy asks before throwing her hands up, “Ugh, nevermind. I finished mine early, I’ll start on the others.”  


“I’ll help,” Percival says, “I’ve already done sections three, four, and five. Trust me, you won’t get any of these morons to cooperate and do anything together.”  


“I’ve got at least four lighters in my pocket,” says Bors. “Just say the word, and I’ll have those doors blown open wider than Tristan’s mum’s legs.”

Tristan’s teeth grind together. “You crude pillock. I dare you to say another word about my mother.”  


“How did you get _four_ lighters?” Merlin asks. “You’re only allowed one on your person at a time.”

“Points for style, but not an ideal solution unless you wanted to blow us all to Kingdom come as well,” Harry remarks.  


Of these three reactions, Bors wisely chooses to only address Harry’s. “Well, the point is to escape the room. Didn’t say in what shape we had to be in, did it?”

“ _That isn’t the point!”_ Merlin hisses, wishing he had hair to tear out.  


“Now, if we moved some furniture around to shield us from the worst of the blast….” Harry begins, growing more enthusiastic now that the possibility of an explosion was involved.  


“You know,” Eggsy says, still with the mattress bouncing, “Why’s they only got two beds in here and yet there’s like supposedly eight of us assigned to this one room? In what scenario would that ever happen unless we weren’t all getting ready for some sort of seedy gang bang scenario? What? I’m just saying….”  


“Dear god,” Merlin mutters, wishing _he_ could drink.


	28. hartwin - moon river

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the following prompt: _If you are taking prompts: Nurse!Eggsy AU. Or doctor-in-training Eggsy AU. Harry is a doctor who is his patient. Eggsy impresses a initially grumpy/skeptical Harry with his skill, but wins his undying love and absolute devolution by the end of Harry's recovery with his kindness, charm, and love of Audrey Hepburn films._

Roxy practically leaps at him as soon as he walks through the doors of the break room. He doesn’t even get the chance grab a cuppa first. “Did you hear?”

She has the crazy eyes going at full intensity, which never fails to put Eggsy on edge, lack of caffeine be damned. “No?”

“Dr Hart was in a car accident!” she says gleefully.

Eggsy stares at her in horror.

“…okay, I belatedly realise how that sounds.” She cringes, but effervescent woman that she is, any shame she feels evapourates as quickly as a summer storm. “I mean, he’s fine.” Then amends: “Well, he’s alive.”

Whatever is on his face must make her nervous because her speech starts speeding up precariously. “He’s not _that_ badly hurt! A few bumps and bruises. Spiral fracture in his femur—”

“A spiral fracture?” Eggsy squawks. “Jesus, Rox!”

“What I’m trying to say,” Roxy waves him off, “is that it could have been worse, but he’s here through the end of the week, which means….”

And, _oh_ , Eggsy gets it now, a smile starting to edge up the corners of his mouth in spite of the situation. “He’s under our care.”

Dr Harry Hart is one of Kingsman Hospital’s most well-regarded general physicians, but considered something of a misanthropic grump, coming in exactly five minutes before his shift and leaving precisely five minutes after it’s over without talking to anyone outside of the necessities of his job. He isn’t rude, per se—quite the opposite, actually—but he doesn’t socialise with the other staff (a doctor who doesn’t flirt with the nurses is practically tantamount to a zebra that doesn’t have stripes), and the result has garnered him a, perhaps, unfair, if understandable, reputation.

He doesn’t inquire about people’s families. He doesn’t join in on birthday celebrations. He doesn’t eat lunch in the cafeteria with anyone (Eggsy wonders if he even needs to eat at all). He doesn’t volunteer any information about himself nor does he ask it of others. Eggsy knows the janitors more intimately (and one of them, Jack, _very_ intimately).

The trouble is that Dr Hart is fucking _fit_ , and Eggsy has been gagging for it from the very moment he first laid eyes on that fine specimen of tall, dark, and frowny. 

And Eggsy has pulled out _all_ the stops, most of which had a 95% success rate in getting laid with just about anyone else. His scrubs are alluringly tight. He isn’t terrible looking. He has a nice smile. He gets on well with everyone, except fucking Charlie, because Charlie is a dick.

And yet where does any of that get him with Dr Hart? The one time Eggsy heavily hinted at having a free upcoming weekend and, oh dear, whatever ought he to do with it? The bastard had merely responded with a curt, “Perhaps you could cultivate some hobbies.” 

Yeah, that one still smarted.

But now all of that would change. They had Dr Hart _trapped_ , forced to have daily interactions with them outside of the job because now he was the patient! Eggsy would make Dr Hart interact with him even if it killed him, which it wouldn’t, because Eggsy is a _great_ nurse, and for Hart, he’d be the _best_.

“They’ve just moved him up from post-op,” Roxy explains. “Still completely loopy. Bet you can get some absolute gold if you hurry—”

Roxy doesn’t have to tell him twice. He’s practically already out the door already.

“Room 305!” She calls after him down the corridor. “Don’t ever say I never did anything nice for you, so you better film it for me!”

 

_____

 

When Eggsy almost takes a header into Dr Hart’s room because he’d maybe been a bit _too_ enthusiastic in getting there, he is rather disappointed to learn that Dr Hart on drugs isn’t all that dissimilar from Dr Hart stone cold sober.

He merely lolls his head towards Eggsy and arches a brow. “Mr Unwin, is there an emergency? I fear I won’t be of much use for the time being.”

What _is_ a revelation, though, is how different Dr Hart looks without the intimidating shield of his lab coat, scrubs, and the thick-framed black specs he usually wears. Softer, more vulnerable. Face definitely a bit banged up. His gaze isn’t as sharp or quick to pin Eggsy with his usual magnifying glass-and-sunlight sort of stare. His bum leg is entirely encased in packed gauze and bandages from the sole of his foot to well up his thigh and hip, a distance that could probably be measured in miles.

It’s enough to give him the courage to step further into the room, right up to Dr Hart’s bedside. “No emergency, promise. I just wanted to see if you was alright?”

“Never better,” Dr Hart replies, and holy shit, maybe Eggsy would have to revise his earlier assumption about Dr Hart, because the man then gifts him with an adorably dopey smile, the very first of any kind Eggsy has ever seen on his face.

Honestly, he’d been starting to think Dr Hart had the relevant muscles surgically removed.

But then there is more! Because Dr Hart continues babbling, “The other driver ran a red light at the intersection and plowed right into me. But it’s all fine. Kingsman is a fine hospital and I was very well taken care of and now I am on your very fine drugs and now your very fine self has visited me.”

It’s the most Dr Hart has ever said to him that haven’t been orders pertaining to patient care. Eggsy knows his mouth is hanging open stupidly, but he can’t find the brainpower to will it closed again.

When he recovers his ability to speak, the first thing out of his mouth is, “You think I’m fine?”

“A fine nurse,” Dr Hart nods, promptly sinking Eggsy’s hopes. “If a bit overly familiar and verbally incontinent to the point of impropriety….”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” No one could fucking insult him on how he did his job! “I’ll have you know patients _love_ me exactly because I’m not some stuffy, priggish doctor. Do you know how many times I’ve had to smooth things over after you’ve delivered test results and then fucked off like you’ve just binned an unwanted puppy? I’d rather be called _verbose_ and _improper_ than act like you. Your bedside manner is _terrible_! And everyone thinks you’re weird and antisocial!”

“I'm sorry?” Dr Hart blinks at him slowly, like Eggsy’s burst of anger had come out of nowhere, which, alright, he may have been building up to it for awhile.

…and there went all of Eggsy’s intentions to be a good nurse. Dr Hart’s brain to mouth filter is likely shot, and Eggsy certainly isn’t keen on hearing what else he really thinks of him.

He takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. “Do you need anything?” he asks through gritted teeth. “Water? Another pillow?”

“Solitude,” Dr Hart says pointedly.

What a prick.

Still, Eggsy plasters on his most winning smile even though it feels like trying to part the Red Sea. “Alright. You know which button to press if you change your mind! Get some rest, Dr Hart.” _You grouchy tosser with stupid hair_.

 

_____

 

Unfortunately, his shift has really only just begun, so Eggsy’s got a long twelve hours ahead of him, which involves hourly rounds. Fortunately, though, the next time he has to check in on Dr Hart, the man is out like a light and remains that way over the course of his next four visits.

It’s on hour five when Eggsy encounters a not only fully awake and aware Dr Hart, but the stupid bastard is in visible pain, pale and sweaty, mouth pressed into a tight line like he is trying to hold back something unsavoury.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” Eggsy can’t help blurting out, rushing into the room to find Dr Hart has disconnected his morphine drip. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me! There’s no bonus points for the stoic suffering here, guv. Let’s get you cleaned up and put back on—”

“No.” The word is dislodged from between Dr Hart’s clenched teeth and followed by a swift shake of his head. “No drugs. I don’t like the way…the way they make me feel.”

“But you’re in pain,” Eggsy says.

“I can handle it!” Dr Hart snaps, but his determination is belied by the small groan that seeps past his lips as his hands fist at the sheets and his eyes squeeze tightly shut to weather out whatever wave of agony must be washing over him.

Eggsy can only look on helplessly, feeling sick at witnessing someone else’s suffering.

Unable to simply stand still, he moves to the toilet and gathers a basin of cold water and flannel, returning to Dr Hart’s side and tentatively applying the cold, wet cloth to his brow.

Dr Hart flinches, eyes flying open to regard Eggsy a bit wildly, but he doesn’t tell Eggsy to fuck off, so Eggsy continues to run the flannel down the side of his face and mirrors the gesture on the other side before re-soaking and wringing it out again to wipe down his chin, neck, and chest.

Gradually, Dr Hart starts to relax, letting out a shaky sigh.

“We gotta change your gown. You’re soaked through. Sheets too. Can’t be a nice feeling, can it?”

“Hadn’t noticed. My mind was on other things,” Dr Hart croaks out, voice thin and raspy like he’s been screaming this whole time.

Eggsy hesitates, fearing another barbed rebuke, but eventually decides the man is simply too worn down to put up any further fight. “Why don’t you want the drugs, Dr Hart? Or at least something to help you sleep?”

“Bad experience once. Never again.” It’s all very vague, but the haunted expression in Dr Hart’s eyes is more than enough for Eggsy to keep his mouth shut about it.

“Then…let’s, uh, try and make you as comfortable as possible, shall we? At least let me get you some Tylenol.”

“Alright,” Dr Hart reluctantly agrees, which must mean it’s getting very bad indeed.

It’s all rather tedious and painstaking to change out the bedding. Every little movement causes Dr Hart immense pain even though he tries to stay stubbornly silent about it. By the time Eggsy’s done, he’s had to promise to cover three of stupid Charlie’s future shifts to get him to agree to take over the rest of Eggsy’s rounds for the night, which is a bit fucking lopsided, but when Eggsy gets Dr Hart into a fresh gown and settles him back into clean sheets, he can’t bring himself to regret it.

“There, that’s better, innit?” Eggsy says after making yet another minute adjustment to Dr Hart’s pillows.

“Yes. Thank you, Mr Unwin,” Dr Hart sighs. His face has a touch more colour to it beneath the darkened curls matted to his forehead.

Unbidden, Eggsy’s hand reaches out and gently smooths them back before his brain can catch up with body.

Dr Hart’s eyes lock with his.

 _Fuuuuuuuck_.

Eggsy quickly snatches his hand back. “Uh, sorry. Sorry. That was stupid.” Cheeks burning with embarrassment, he moves away, desperate for some other activity to latch onto, and finding it when he spots the remote. “How bout some telly, hey? Probably not much on right now, but I bet we can find something distracting….”

He doesn’t wait for an answer as he turns on the telly. There really isn’t much on. Old reruns. Infomercials. Re-aired sports events. The blue-tinged light strobes through the room as Eggsy flips through channels in dizzying succession.

His thumb, however, pauses over the channel button when Audrey Hepburn’s beautiful countenance suddenly fills the screen and familiar melancholy notes strum out from the tinny speakers. _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_.

He smiles a bit, lingering and wistful, before realising he still has an expectant audience. “Uh, well. This one’ll bore you to tears, right? Let’s see what else is around….”

But as soon as he holds up the remote again, he’s stopped by Dr Hart’s warm hand laid over his. His fingers are very long and slender, Eggsy can’t help but note.

“Keep it on.”

When Eggsy turns his head to look at him, Dr Hart’s eyes are already closed.

 _Must be bloody exhausted_.

As the notes of “Moon River” gracefully float around them like a dream, Eggsy gently places Dr Hart’s hand back on his chest, hovering much too long to feel its slow rise and fall, before sitting back in his chair.

Dr Hart doesn’t even stir.

 

_____

 

“I want to apologise,” is the first thing Dr Hart says on Eggsy’s next shift, and when Eggsy just gives him a quizzical look, he adds, “For what I said earlier. When I was stoned out of my mind. It was unforgivably rude.”

Ah, that.

“It’s fine,” Eggsy says, rubbing his brow. “Everyone says crazy things right after surgery. Water under the bridge, mate.”

But Dr Hart persists. “Furthermore, it wasn’t even correct. I was wilfully ignorant. You _are_ a great nurse, Mr Unwin. Full stop. I’m just a…well. I’m a bit of an arse, if you haven’t noticed by now.”

He looks wan and tired, Eggsy observes. Still in pain, though the low-grade painkillers he’s on help him to manage it better. “You’s alright.”

A small, barely there smile faintly stamps Dr Hart’s mouth, but it might as well have been lit across a billboard for how much it makes Eggsy’s heart speed up.

Until Dr Hart says, apropos of nothing, “I was in the Army.”

Eggsy blinks.

Dr Hart doesn’t look at him. “I was critically injured during an unexpected attack. And then I got sepsis. I was…very, very sick. I had to be flown back to London. When I finally recovered, I had learned all the men in my squad had been killed.”

For a long time, Eggsy doesn’t know what to say, and then what eventually comes out is, “…well, that fucking sucks, don’t it?” Which makes him wince at how callous he sounds. “I’m sorry, is what I mean to say.”

“It’s not…an excuse,” says Dr Hart. “I just wanted you to know, is all.”

“Alright,” Eggsy say, gamely huffing out a breath before finally pulling out the things from his rucksack he’d brought for Harry. “So. Like Ms Audrey, do you?”

It gets Dr Hart to look at him in surprise, then with a longer, searching scrutiny, like he’s trying to find any hint of recrimination in Eggsy’s face. Cautiously, he answers, “I enjoy her work, yes. Quite a bit.”

“Then pick which one you want to watch first,” Eggsy says, holding out a select choice of Blu-Rays. _Roman Holiday_. _Sabrina_. _Wait Until Dark_. _My Fair Lady_. _Funny Face_.

It makes something warm in Dr Hart’s eyes, and Eggsy’s heart does a funny little flip. “I didn’t know you were quite the fan.”

“Wha? South London boy like me can’t like the classics?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just…well,” Dr Hart meets his gaze, all darkly intense and smouldering, burning Eggsy up inside, “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Eggsy arches a brow despite the way the blood rushes in his ears. “You just figuring that out now, Dr Hart?”

“Harry. Please call me Harry. I believe you’ve earned the right after having to give me a sponge bath.”

Not like he was complaining. Christ, that body is still a work of art, injured or no. “Only if you call me Eggsy.”

“Eggsy,” Harry says softly, finally nodding a bit and pointing at _Roman Holiday_. “Maybe that one? Could do with a bit of romance every once in awhile.”

He almost looks shy about it, the stupid dork with stupid fluffy hair when left unstyled.

“Yeah, you could,” Eggsy dares to say, which makes something speculative spark up deliciously in Harry’s eyes. “I’ll just cue us up then.”

When he turns towards the telly, Eggsy can’t help grinning.

Oh yeah, he still had it.


	29. harry/roxy + unrequited hartwin - forbidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For this prompt by thisbirdhadflown: _Hey, I have a Harry/Roxy prompt. How about the two get together while being partnered on a mission? It can be twu luv or just an one-off. But I'm really interested to see Harry and Roxy have some interaction and get to know each other better without the Eggsy/Merlin buffer._

One time, Roxy flat out asked, _Did you love him?_

It was a few months after V-Day, and they both came out of it alive with shiny new titles to their names and an organisation half in ruins, but the Eggsy who emerged from Valentine’s bunker was different than the boy who sparred, joked, and went on early morning runs with her during the Lancelot trials. More sorrow. More weight on his shoulders: easily a few thousand deaths on his mind.

He is more quiet now. Aged a lot faster than he ought to have: deeper lines on his face, darker shadows beneath his eyes. She frequently catches him staring into the contents of his glass like it contains tea leaves instead of scotch. The fire in the hearth would gleam off his neat, left-parted hair and reflect in the lenses of his glasses. Squint, and she could see the man who frequently haunted his thoughts.

He hadn’t even hesitated, or looked caught off guard by the question. Just resigned, like he’d been waiting for the inevitable.  


_Of course I did._

 

_____

 

It’s not that kind of movie, Eggsy once said, but sometimes life just didn’t play by the rules of common sense or logic.

When Harry Hart rises from the dead and abruptly comes back into their lives again, Roxy gets to see, in the flesh, for the first time, the love of her best friend’s life.

He’s even taller than expected. Even in his perfectly cut suit, he’s so thin as to be frail, but there’s a sort of grit there now that hadn’t existed before. More grey at his temples. A black eyepatch where his left eye had once been. He looks at Eggsy so fondly and Eggsy looks back like his entire world had been shattered and put back together, piece by painstaking piece.  


When they are formally introduced, Harry’s one brown eye scrutinises her head to toe, and she gets the feeling his thoughts about her are complicated. His hand dwarfs hers, callused and long fingered. An elegant hand with manicured nails, able to pummel and carry out social graces with the same brutish finesse. Everything about his manner is unfalteringly, perfectly polite.

She wants to look him in the eye and say, _My best friend tore this whole damn world down for you._

Instead, she nods her head once, curt and respectful. “Galahad.”

 

_____

 

The first time they are paired for a mission---a rich aristocrat and his mid-life crisis wife, how sullen Eggsy had been over their covers, until Merlin sternly reminded him that a same-sex couple would have been rather conspicuous for the circles attending that particular party---it goes to shit.

They are running as fast as their burning lungs would allow, dodging the evening crowds along the narrow roads of London, and she’s half afraid one small crack in the pavement or the hem of her dress will catch her heel and send her tumbling arse over tea kettle, but she can’t afford to stop.

Harry has an easier time of it, long legged and dressed in clothes more suitable for a quick flight than she. Roxy has to run thrice as fast to even keep up with his strides. He doesn’t make it easy for her or dare slow down. Part of her hates him for that, but part of her, the one fuelled by adrenaline and stupidity, relishes the challenge.

They make it to the edge of the river where several couples and groups of friends are having evening strolls. The crowds are thinner now, which is dangerous.

Her skin is sticky, her legs are sore, blood pounding in her ears and beating in her cheeks. For one blank moment, she’s not sure what to do.

“Well,” Harry says, breathless and light, “When in doubt, I like to return to the classics.”

Then he pulls her in close against his body, a large hand around her waist, another to the back of her neck to force her to look up at him, thumbs skirting her hairline, then caressing the nape of her neck in a way that sends a shiver across her skin.

He looks at her with paralysing intent. She only just manages to part her lips moments before they are claimed by his, tongue and teeth and saliva. No hesitation or tentativeness here. Between the fumblings of boys from uni and a few curious girls, Roxy realises she’s never been properly kissed until now.

She’s ashamed to admit that she loses track of her surroundings, consumed as she is by Lazarus himself. Something heady about being fully immersed in the body of someone so much larger and stronger than her, smelling like gunpowder and sandalwood, tip of his nose colliding against her cheek.

Her hands automatically come up to brace herself, a palm to his chest, the other sliding towards his neck, before she remembers where they are, pulling back just enough to meet his eye, lips cooling and swollen, the taste of the champagne he’d had earlier sharp and sweet on her tongue.

He backs her up against the dark side of a lamp post, presses himself against her, blanketing her, and this time it doesn’t take any coaxing for her to open up to him again, feeling his hands drag tendrils of her hair from its careful sweep of hair grips, his fingers tingling along the knobs of her bare spine.

Peripherally, she notes how the men who were after them run right past, that they linger in this amourous playacting now just to be absolutely certain they’re clear. Even if Harry is slow to eventually draw back with heavy breaths that can no longer be explained by the exertion of running.

His hands are still on her just as hers linger on him.  


 

_____

 

Much later in the back of the taxi, in the shadows, they don’t speak about it. She can feel exhaustion sinking down into her bones and most of her thoughts keep circling around the many qualities of her bed.

Harry trades a few quiet murmurs with Merlin over his glasses.

“Yes, the package is secure.”

“Obviously we weren’t followed.”

“No, we’re not in need of medical attention.”

“You too, you bald bastard. Goodnight.”

Roxy stares out the window at the many dark rows of townhouses and storefronts. She idly studies the back of their driver’s head, then his eyes in the reflection of the rear view mirror. He looks straight ahead, tired from the long night, but dutifully neutral and unobtrusive as any good Kingsman driver is paid to be.

Her hand rests on the seat beside her. She can feel the heat from his laxly laid out next to it, close, almost touching.

Her pinky twitches, accidentally brushes against the side of his palm, surprisingly smooth there, cool to touch. Her skin feels electrified at the point of contact, brain suddenly alert.

She thinks he’s looking at her from the corner of his eye. Feels the heaviness of his attention and awareness, not unlike the pure concentration of a hungry predator.

She doesn’t dare turn her head.

 

_____

 

Eggsy is waiting for them when they get back to headquarters, relieved and deeply annoyed at them in a way that betrays how much of their mission he’d been snooping in on.

“Glad you’re both alright, but _really_?”

He gives her a sharp look first, then moves it to Harry, where it immediately softens like he can’t help it.

“Don’t look at me, it wasn’t my idea!” Roxy defends, turning to them both and that’s when she sees. Really sees.

The way Harry looks at Eggsy is fond. Tender. Loving. But it’s not the way Eggsy looks at Harry.

“I’m afraid it’s my go-to method when I’m out of choices,” Harry says, trying to be innocent, but he’s got too much of a smug line in his mouth for that. “Merlin can attest to it. Personally.”

Eggsy smiles brightly at him, forgiving him immediately, because he always, blindly, does.

 

_____

 

After a hot shower and a trip home, she’s back in her much longed-for bed, Geordie stretched out against her side and snoring in a deep sleep that now vexingly eludes her.

She closes her eyes, trying to imagine and recreate the sensation.  


The backs of her knuckles brush against her lips. Her fingers ghost along the line of her neck. 


	30. firtherton - fangirl colin firth, everyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Deepdarkrivers who wanted:
> 
>  
> 
> _I’m useless at writing RPF but I need one of you talented wonders to write some dirt about Taron playing Elton John and Colin sneaking into his dressing room to try on his costumes. GO._
> 
>  
> 
> warnings for RPF. D:

“What are you doing?”

The question causes Colin to go very still. He contemplates various answers he could give, then settles for the truth. “Look, we both knew this was going to happen when you left me here.”

“You look like a peacock who had an unexpected growth spurt in the middle of a mating dance.”

“Yes, I rather forgot about our size differences in all the excitement.”

“Right.” Taron, at least, now appears amused, though he’s valiantly trying not to show it. “So, let me guess. You’re stuck.”

Colin doesn’t wince, but it’s close. “The, er, fabric is not as giving as I’d hoped.”

There had been some ominous tearing sounds as he tried to squeeze his long limbs into the, er, ensemble, only to belatedly learn that, no, it would not simply stretch a little to accommodate the breadth of his shoulders or chest, nor would it the length of his torso or legs. As it would happen, all of Sir Elton John’s more ridiculous full bodied outfits that had been recreated for Taron to wear had also been carefully custom tailored to his proportions with not an ounce of generosity left to spare.

So here Colin is, halfway stuck in a jumpsuit of colourful plumage, attempting to play it all off like he very much intended to end up in this position, thank you very much. He even tries crossing his legs, only to give up halfway when the fabric resists.  


“Would you...like some help?” Taron posits after witnessing Colin’s unsuccessful attempts to arrange his constrained limbs into a casual repose on the couch.

After a moment’s thought given to refusing such humiliation, Colin admits, “I fear there’s no getting this thing off now except in pieces.”

“I’ll go dig up some scissors.” Taron sighs. “Wardrobe’s gonna kill me.”

“Ah. Will you be explaining to them that....”

“Oh, that Colin Firth has got a glam rock fetish that makes him take leave of his senses at the sight of a few feathers and glitter?” Taron grins. “Oh yeah.”

“Right,” Colin says with resignation. “I suppose I deserve that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [outfit in question](http://www.chinaclickgo.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/01/Elton-John-2.jpg), for reference.


	31. harry/elton - rocket men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Backstage passes were one thing, but this was entirely unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for _Kingsman: The Golden Circle_. Harry/Elton. For thatgirl-who.

Backstage passes were one thing, but this was entirely unexpected.

“While the suit’s entirely smashing, darling,” Elton says, giving Harry a slow, unabashed, head-to-toe once over, “I think I’ve got something a little more comfortable you can wear.”

Though Harry prides himself on maintaining his calm and collected demeanour under any and all circumstances, it was one thing to be on the wrong end of a gun barrel facing one’s imminent death; it was entirely something else to be faced with this.

With a dramatic flourish, Elton pulled open the wardrobe to reveal a vividly coloured, glittering, feather-and-bejewelled encrusted costume of decidedly Harry-like proportions, if Harry’s expert tailor’s eye (the only one remaining) could judge.

“Oh Elton,” Harry breathes, reverently skimming his fingers down the detailed bead work, shivering when a thrilling sensation electrifies his nerves as his fingers are tickled by the feathers, “May I express to you my utmost sincerity when I say: you can lay me down in sheets of linen any day.”

“Well, I hope you have nowhere to be, Secret Agent Man,” Elton says as he smirks and reaches out to unknot Harry’s tie, “Because it’s going to be a long, long time ‘til touchdown.”


	32. harry/elton - the look of love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're wearing _that_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for _Kingsman: The Golden Circle_. For hisreindeerjumper. Harry/Elton may be my new Thing. But so may Merlahad. There's plenty of Harry to go around.

"You're wearing _that_?"

Harry ignores Merlin’s entirely too judgmental tone as he adjusts his rather shockingly purple button down Sir Elton had gifted him with and delivers a sharp riposte of, “At least I can still wear socks,” accompanied by a pointed glance at Merlin’s metal appendages.

Predictably, Merlin scowls, probably wishing he had also included the ability to flip people off when he built his new, absurdly enhanced, legs.

But then a damnable ounce of doubt creeps in despite Harry’s best efforts, “Merlin…can I really carry off jewel tones?”

Merlin’s gaze softens as he meets his best mate’s eyes in the mirror and says, “Methinks the look of love can make anything look beautiful.”


	33. tilwin - country roads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't ideal, but until they were able to locate a safe house, staying at Merlin's was the best option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for _Kingsman: The Golden Circle_. Eggsy/Tilde. Fight me. For thatbirdhadflown.

It wasn't ideal, but until they were able to locate a safe house, staying at Merlin's was the best option.

In another lifetime, it would even be considered normal, perhaps even just another night of too-late drinking and a drunken kip on the couch, but now….

“You didn’t tell me your friend could cover all of John Denver’s discography,” Tilde shouts, “with bagpipes!”

…turns out, convalescence and rebuilding Kingsman leaves a lot of downtime.

With hands firmly clamped over JB the II’s poor little sensitive ears, which unfortunately left his own fully exposed to Merlin’s audio assault, Eggsy pitches his voice even louder during a particularly rousing instrumental keen in order to shout back, “We should never have encouraged him to take up new hobbies!”


	34. whisky/harry - manners maketh man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _what are the chances of a harry/whiskey hatefuck appearing in a fic by you_ \-- Turns out, pretty high!
> 
> Darkish. Possibly bordering on dub-con territory. Spoilers for _Kingsman: The Golden Circle_.

There had never been any love lost between them, even before Harry knew who Agent Whiskey was. Back when Harry’s mind was as blank as the white padded tiles of his prison cell, their paths crossed only rarely, mostly during those initial interrogations in the early days to ascertain how deep Harry’s amnesia had gone.

Except for those other times. Losing one’s memories didn’t mean one had lost one’s _needs_. Jack was happy enough to see to that, bending Harry over his bed or up against the butterfly-patterned walls, crowding him, rucking his sweats down just enough to get at what he wanted, bending Harry’s body this way and that just enough so when Jack lined up the blunt head of his cock against Harry’s hole, he could fuck up into him with one deep, long, burning thrust and steal his breath away.

He liked to mouth at Harry’s neck, caress his softening belly, pinch his nipples, and pay little attention to Harry’s cock.

“You’re just a dumb, blank slate,” he’d whisper in Harry’s ear as he roughly fucked him. Who knew who was on the other side of the glass as they carried on their brief trysts. Probably Ginger, who knew better than to say anything when Whiskey was involved. “Nobody’s come for you, butterfly guy. Starting to think nobody will. You’re nobody.”

At the time, it had felt as much the truth as anything. All he had were his categorizations and Jack willing to fuck him and so much blank whiteness.

After his humiliation in the bar, feeling like a mere half-life of his former self, Whiskey pressed him up against the wood paneling right next to the loo in the darkened corridor, the hard line of his erection emerging from his jeans like a newly formed island pressing up against Harry’s arse . Whispers in Harry’s ear with booze-laden breath, “Look at that, still not worth a damn after all.”

And what Whiskey could do with a whip, he could just as aptly apply with his hands, pulling up Harry’s finely starched dress shirt to sweetly aggravate all the tender spots on his ribs where boorish fists had landed, then undoing the button and fly of his trousers to snake his hands into Harry’s boxers and coax his cock into wanting hardness.

He made Harry come in his trousers while rubbing off against Harry’s backside, splattering come all over the seat of his expensive suit just high enough for Harry to cover with the tail of his jacket.

Harry couldn’t meet Eggsy’s eye after that.

There was always degree of pitying disdain in Whiskey’s eyes every time he looked at Harry: at first for the poor, gormless fool who drew butterflies with a wrist that was perhaps a little too limp.

And then there is now.

With the heat-warmed braids of his whip wrapped around Harry’s neck like the tightening coils of a python, Whiskey now gazes down at Harry with smug contempt, his thumb teasing the whip’s pommel, just over the button to send electricity coursing down its length.

“Now, I’m sorry about your boy, Galahad Senior.”

Harry can barely move his head, but his eye shifts its focus to where Eggsy is sprawled out across the shining linoleum tiles, still. When he finally reclaims consciousness, it’ll be to a changed world where a significant portion of the world’s population has gruesomely bled out through their orifices, including his estranged lover.

“You may not think it now, but I just did both our organizations a favor.”

Harry slowly drags his focus back to him once more. There must be naked seething hatred in his eye. Whiskey’s mustache twitches when he smirks. “And what thanks do I get? A bullet to the head. Now, I may not be one of them fine English gentlemen like yourself, but that don’t seem like good manners to me.”

A tug on the whip upsets Harry’s already precarious sense of balance until he staggers forward a few steps. Only the tips of his fingers wedged between his throat and the whip keep his skin from being abraded. But Whiskey keeps pulling, reeling Harry in until he has no choice but to fall to his knees, Whiskey’s fist below his chin, tipping his face up.

He leans down, close enough for his breath to brush across Harry’s face, his clothes permeated with the stale scents of the jungle, sweat, and petrol. “So why don’t you start thanking me properly?”


	35. merlin/ginger - a welcome visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a request for Merlin/Ginger fluff.

Merlin hates fuss on principle, but he can’t stop the incoming tide of “Get well soon!” visits, balloons, plants, cards, and gifts.

Tequila gives him a bottle of Statesman’s oldest reserve and even blacks out the ‘e’ on the bottle. “Cuz I know it bothers you mightily,” he explains with a proud smile that indicates he’s still tickled by this apparent oddity, but figures he ought to indulge Merlin anyway on account of his convalescence.

From across the pond, Champ sends him a shipment of Kentucky’s finest tobacco along with a masterfully handcrafted pipe.  


Eggsy gets him tartan leg cosies in Merlin’s clan colors, claiming he doesn’t want Merlin’s new legs to freeze up in winter. As if Merlin would overlook accounting for various temperatures and weather conditions when it came to engineering his own creations.

Roxy buys them both matching t-shirts that say _Member of the ‘Everyone Thought I was Dead’ club_ that has an addendum on the back: _Bitch, You Tried._ Harry complains he deserves one too and further goes on to argue he really ought to be president given the length of time his death was assumed. While his reasons are sound, Merlin commands Roxy to not give in because Harry needs to learn he can’t always get what he wants just because he throws a snit. Besides, it’s amusing to see him sulk.  


Harry brings him Kingsman’s very bottle of scotch from their very first batch.

“You bastard,” Merlin tells him, “This cost you no money or effort. We own the distillery.”

“I didn’t drink it myself,” Harry points out, which, when put like that, is downright magnanimous of him. Even better, he additionally gifts him with John Denver’s entire remastered discography on vinyl.

“I suppose that’ll do,” Merlin sniffs disdainfully. In retaliation, Harry snatches the bottle back and takes several swigs.

Then one morning, Ginger appears in the doorway of his medical room.

“Hi,” she says almost shyly, half inside the room and half out, like she isn’t sure of her welcome. “I hear I’m late to the party. Sorry about that. I just got back from a mission.”

Merlin has been giving every bothersome visitor the stink eye and a scowl for the last five days, but Ginger’s very presence chases away any and all irritation like clouds making way for a rare spot of afternoon sun.

He finds himself smiling, and not the “scary predator smile” Eggsy accuses him of having. No, this is the one that only ever emerges rarely: small, closed lip, impossibly tender. “No need for apologies. You’re here now. That’s the important thing.”

Her smile grows more confident as she steps fully into the room. She’s garbed in Statesman’s agent uniform: worn jeans, a button down white shirt, a casual jacket, belt, and cowboy boots. As much as Merlin may miss her old uniform, even he has to admit this one suits her much better: she stands taller, more sure of her place in the world.

It doesn’t escape Merlin’s attention her hands remain tucked behind her back, and of course she notices that he notices. “Of course, I couldn’t just visit without bringing a gift.”

“I don’t know why everyone insists on getting me gifts. I didn’t know you were supposed to be rewarded for getting bits of your body blown off. Besides, your being here is more than enough,” Merlin insists, but falls silent when Ginger reveals not a vice or quaint tchotchke, but a familiar clipboard. He’s intrigued despite himself.

“It, uh, contains a few blueprints of my own design,” Ginger says, releasing the clipboard into Merlin’s hands to peruse. “For those legs I know you’ve begun working on. I may have taken a peek at some of your initial drafts. They were already so fantastic, it inspired me to continue with them. You can use these as you see fit. Please consider them suggestions only. I pretty much know whatever you come up with will be brilliant.”

Even a brief scan of her designs is enough to raise Merlin’s brows. Ginger’s work never fails to bowl him over in its sheer elegance, beauty, and genius.  Her work on his prosthetics is no less impressive, already inspiring a dozen new exciting possibilities. Despite strict orders of bed rest, he wants nothing more than to head down to his new lab and get to work. Moreover, what he wants most of all is for her to join him in his endeavours—something that has never happened before, given his almost total preference for solitude.

He glances back up at her, voice thick with feeling he would never admit to having. “This is the loveliest gift I could have ever received. Thank you, Ginger,” he says, then inwardly berates himself for his mistake: she’s ascended to the upper ranks, after all. “I mean, Agent Whiskey.”

A series of emotions flicker across her face, all too quickly for him to identify a single one. “Merlin…” she says tentatively, “…Elizabeth’ll do just fine, if you want, that is.”

“Elizabeth,” Merlin says, tasting the syllable on his tongue. Short and to the point. No nonsense. Just like her. It feels like a gift even greater than her designs. “Then you must call me Hamish.”

“Hamish,” Elizabeth dutifully repeats with a nod, but the shine in her eyes is soft. “You know, while I love being an agent, I was thinking about spending some of my recently approved time off getting back to my roots in the lab. Maybe I could do that here in England? I’m supposed to be on vacation after all. If Kingsman has the vacancy, of course.”

Merlin pretends to consider it. “I think we may be able to squeeze you in,” he says diffidently. “If you don’t mind working alongside a mere disabled Scottish lab geek, that is.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” Elizabeth says. “Those just happen to be my favorite kind.”


	36. merhartwin - not the world's most natural caretaker, that one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: _Merlin/Eggsy/Harry Merlin is kidnapped and tortured. Eggsy and Harry help him through the aftermath_
> 
> Slight warning for torture aftermath (but nothing graphic) and Harry secretly drugging Eggsy to get him to sleep because Harry is a bastard sometimes.

Merlin starts awake with a simultaneous pulsing in his ears, his throat, his chest. There’s a lingering sense of fear prickling across his skin, a sour note in the back of his mouth. For several panicked moments, he feels paralysed, out of control. Everything is _horrible_. He is going to _die_ —  


Only when these initial sensations begin to recede do the aches and pains reassert themselves, dull and throbbing across his body: bone-deep contusions, broken bones, stitched together skin. 

Suffice to say, it’s not his preferred method of waking up.

Belatedly, he becomes aware of the hand stroking his scalp, not at all put off by its hot clamminess. Words, too, quietly murmured, repeating. “Shhh, you’re alright. Everything is going to be alright.”

He swallows down the sudden lump in his throat, blinks back the moisture behind his eyes. “I’m not your fucking dog.”

“Not enough hair for that,” Harry agrees with an amused hum.

Merlin cranes his head back to look up at him. They’re in some weird jigsaw conglomeration on the bed that’s producing an extraordinary amount of heat: Harry sat up and leaning against the headboard while reading a book by the dim illumination of the only lamp that’s been turned on, Merlin’s sweaty back lined up along his left leg, back of his head curled along his hip, and…

Merlin eyes the other body he’s wedged against. Eggsy’s limbs are slung over him like a blanket, somehow managing avoid all his numerous injuries. He’s quietly drooling into Merlin’s chest. “What did you do to him?” he accuses.

“Slipped a little something into his nightcap,” Harry answers without missing a beat. “He’d never have got any rest otherwise.”

“Jesus.”

What isn’t said: how Eggsy wouldn’t stop staring at Merlin as if Merlin’s very welfare depended on his unceasing attention. It made Merlin feel worse, being the focus of that wounded, helpless gaze. Harry had known, of course, and gone about addressing the problem in his own entirely inappropriate and extreme fashion.

“He’s going to kill you for this,” Merlin idly notes.

Harry turns the page in his book. “He wouldn’t be the first to have tried.”

“Pour all your alcohol down the sink.”

“As if I don’t have my hiding spots.”

Point of the matter: don’t play games with Harry Hart. He’s an unrepentant cheater who will do anything to win.

A headache begins to swell inside Merlin’s skull to join the symphony of pain quietly at play within his body. His eyes ache and water. He’s _exhausted_.

But the thought of being trapped within the inescapable arms of another nightmare makes him feel sick.

“What are you reading?” he asks instead, because he can’t find the strength to turn his head and find out for himself.

“Classic literature.”

Merlin arches a brow. “Really.”

“Would you like me to read to you?” Harry’s hand still hasn’t stopped its stroking. Initial complaints aside, it’s soothing.

He wants to gripe back, _I’m not a child either_ , but there’s a skittering anxiety still coursing through his nerves and his skin feels too papery thin, brittle. He’s barely holding it together as it is. “If you’d like.”

Harry’s just as good at reading between the lines. Merlin hears him clear his throat, imagines him readjusting the glasses on his nose (oh, but what a blow to his vanity when he discovered they had become a necessity rather than a useful accessory) and angling his book as if about to give a theatrical performance:

“… _With his hand wrapped tightly around my right arm, I was in no position to refuse him. So I opened my mouth wide and let his dick slide further down my throat. Wrapping my lips around his long cock, I sucked hard_.”

Merlin chokes, and then winces, forgetting about his broken ribs.

Harry pretends not to have noticed. “ _I closed my eyes and started bobbing up and down on the beautiful fuck stick before me. Even with my eyes closed, I could still hear his heavy breathing, just as he put his hands on the top of my head._ ”

“Fuck stick?”

“ _He used his hands to push my mouth further down onto his cock as he started fucking my face. He wasn’t slow or gentle with it, picking up the speed as he went._ ”

“For fuck’s sake, Harry.”

“‘ _Uhhhhh, Ughhhh. Ughhhhh. Oh Yeah!’ he groaned._ ”

Merlin finally throws his one uninjured arm back to grip Harry’s thigh. “I hate you so fucking much, you wanker.”

Harry’s hand moves from his head to cover his hand, threading their fingers together. “I hate you too, you miserable bastard.”

“Iateothofyou,” Eggsy slurs as he stirs. He has all the coordination of a newborn foal, however, and only manages to flop onto his back, limbs twisted across his body at odd angles, a gleaming line of spit threaded down his cheek. “Wojuddotame?”

Merlin can’t help reaching forward and tenderly pulling him back into the cocoon of their bodies, and still drugged up as he is, Eggsy goes without resistance, curling up into Merlin like a puppy. “Shhh, you’re alright. Everything’s going to be alright.”


	37. gen - poppy & harry - eye spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For this deliciousness prompt: _Sure, they were only in the same building for a couple of minutes, but... Julianne Moore was tearing the place up as Poppy, who for one moment was blatantly ogling Harry. If the mission failed, or if she'd taken a shot at Statesman in the beginning, he'd make a good pet. Cute but worn, like a well-loved teddy bear; even missing one of his little buttons! She'd probably notice that he wasn't texting via eye movements like Eggsy; he's just looking at butterflies, and isn't that just the cutest?_
> 
> Spoilers for the sequel. Also inspired by the novelization that had Poppy actually having transplanted dog brains into Bennie and Jet.

“At first, I thought I could make you a new eye,” Poppy says in an offhand manner one day. “A really wonderful, multi-use eye. Like a Swiss Army knife. Ooh, maybe one that shoots lasers? We could call it, _Eye Spy_! Get it? Isn’t that great?”  


The corners of Harry’s mouth barely turn up these days anymore, despite how much his increasing lack of response annoys Poppy. He just can’t find the energy to be bothered, no matter how many shocks to his collar she delivers.

Unfortunately for him, Poppy is attentive today. She frowns at his stony expression, audibly sighing her disappointment. “Harry, we’ve talked about maintaining a pleasant attitude around the office. Now, what do you say?”

If anything, Harry’s lips tighten as his jaw firms resolutely.

Poppy’s mouth twists unpleasantly as her hand slides over to one of the ubiquitous remotes she seems to carry with her at all times. Harry only has a split second to brace himself.

The jolt sears through his body, seizing his limbs and turning them painfully rigid. The skin beneath his collar grows unbearably hot. His vision turns white.

By the time it’s over, his limbs are cramping and he tastes copper on his tongue. He accidentally bit through his lip. At least he didn’t soil his clothes this time.

“Would you like to try that again?” Poppy asks him.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he whispers, barely able to produce the words.

But it’s enough to mollify her. The happy, pleased expression settles back over her features once more as she rounds her desk. Her new hideout doesn’t quite approach the 1950s nostalgic grandeur of her previous headquarters in Cambodia, but being on the run means one has to make sacrifices. At least Harry’s dog bed is easily transportable.

“Good boy, Harry. You know how much I hate disciplining you, but you’re just so stubborn!” A fond hand runs through his hair, long red nails scratching at his scalp. “But everyone has a breaking point. Don’t you worry. We’re close to finding yours, I can feel it!”

 _Merlin thinks we’ve located you. Hang on, we’re coming for you, Harry_ , appears in green, glowing text from the corner of his screen. Harry hasn’t cried in decades, but he thinks he could very well do so right now.

His relief doesn’t last for long, however.

“It’s just that,” Poppy continues, picking up the thread of her previous line of conversation as she slides her hand down Harry’s face, cupping his jaw, then over the back of his neck, over the collar, landing somewhere between his tense shoulder blades, “I noticed you having trouble with your eyes lately. What do they call them? Spasms? Stigmatism? Something like that. But instead of always having to get you new prescriptions, I just thought, why not an entirely new organ? And _then_ , it got me thinking, you see: why stop there? The human body is so frail. It ages. Gets sick. It can be injured. Handsome as you are, Harry, you’re not getting any younger. So, I figured: I’ve worked up to animal brain transplants with Bennie and Jet—who you so cruelly put down, need I remind you, naughty boy—why not go for broke? The first human brain transplant, in one of my new, state-of-the-art robots!”

 _You’re insane_ , is all Harry can think as he meets her gaze, feeling the first curdle of fear lance nauseatingly through his gut.

Poppy beams down at him fondly, like the fear and horror shining from his eye is adoration. “No more disobedience from you. No more vulnerability. You’ll be perfect. My most perfect boy.” She claps her hands together cheerfully. “So, let’s step into my salon and see what we can do, shall we?”


	38. hartwin - send in the clowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For randomingoftherandomness's prompt: _Maybe the antique lace doilies were a better option than this._
> 
> Spoilers for _Kingsman: The Golden Circle_.

“You have to understand,” Merlin says after Eggsy finally trails off, more for a lack of oxygen than passion, “Harry has the heart of a Kingsman agent, and the soul of a ninety-two year old grandmother.”

“Yeah, figured that one out after I saw his hoard of carrier bags in the pantry.”

In a fit of pique, Eggsy had once counted them all out. 1,539 bags. Harry had only been living in his new house for 18 months.

Eggsy tried throwing some of them out, only to get into it when Harry vehemently refused to part with even one.

“I use them all the time!” Harry had argued.

“You mean, there used to be _more_?”

It was taking a long time for Harry to settle into the new Pimlico townhouse. Creature of habit that Harry was, Eggsy could sense there was still some resistance towards embracing such a new and unfamiliar space after the loss of all his beloved possessions. The house was barely furnished beyond the essentials, the walls depressingly bare. Harry spent far too much time in Kingsman’s new headquarters sleeping at his desk than in his bed, and it was doing his back no favours.

So Eggsy had aimed to fix that.

A mistake.

Taking Harry to an antiques store was like letting an alcoholic loose in the backroom of a pub after hours. Eggsy was more or less managing to keep Harry’s worst impulses in check, at least until Harry had laid eyes upon _them_.

After that, there was no swaying him.

“But clowns? _Clowns?!_ ” Eggsy justifiably wailed to Merlin, holding up one such porcelain figurine before his glasses so Merlin could see. It had a grotesque Joker smile stretched across its nightmarishly painted face. Its dead gaze seemed to suck out Eggsy’s soul.

Three entire shelves were now covered in similar clown paraphernalia. There was a latch hook clown portrait on the wall beside them. The new leather sofa bore a lone needlepoint throw pillow depicting the face of a clown and the heartfelt message: _Smile and the world smiles with you_. Eggsy is fairly certain he’d seen a similar likeness in the latest horror film to hit the cinemas.

“I think I preferred the dead bugs and taxidermy, you know?”

On the other end of the comm, he hears Merlin choking. Probably took a sip of tea (or something stronger) at the wrong time. “Well that’s…” More sputtering, then a weakly issued, “…we all have our ways of coping.”

“This isn’t coping. It’s a cry for help. I’m staging an intervention,” Eggsy announces.

“And how many carrier bags does Harry have now?”

“Over 2,000 and counting,” Eggsy automatically reports, “But that isn’t the point.”

“No? You can’t wrestle away a geological layer’s worth of plastic from the man. How do you propose taking away his clowns?”

Eggsy shuddered. That phrase just sounded so wrong. “Because it was never about the clowns. Harry’s got a psychological fear of loss. This is just how it’s manifesting. I’ve simply got to reassure him that even though his house, decades of worldly possessions, and…er…his place of employment, colleagues, career, and entire identity are now gone, I’m still here and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Such consolation,” Merlin dryly remarks. “Anyway, you’re forgetting one small detail.”

Scowling even though Merlin can’t see it, Eggsy says, “Oh, and what’s that then?”

“You don’t know anything about Harry’s interests when he was younger.”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”

“I think I have some digitised photos saved. Here, hang on….”

After several moments, various holographic images pop up in Eggsy’s view. Images of a younger Harry in a clown screen printed t-shirt. Harry posing with a group of circus performers, wedged between two clowns. Harry _dressed as an actual clown_  at some unknown child’s birthday party.

“So as you can probably guess,” Merlin continues gleefully, having rendered Eggsy mute with horror, “We’re not just dealing with a sudden psychological break from reality, but a lifetime of mental illness.”

“Oh my god.”

“It’s mostly harmless, you can see. But if he asks you to wear a red nose during your more amorous activities, I should warn you of what may come next.”

“I hate you so much,” Eggsy hisses and viciously shuts down the line when Merlin pipes in “Send in the Clowns,” accompanied by his cackling.


	39. hartwin - cult favorite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, "cultLeader!Eggsy au."

Eggsy was perfectly calm. Calm as a summer day, him.

“Merlin,” he said, calmly. “I hope you’ve got a plan B for this, because at the start of this, I didn’t anticipate _becoming a leader of a bloody cult_!”

“It’s not like we knew their leaders came to power by killing their predecessors,” Merlin tried to defend. “That’s why we sent you in to gather intel. Not to start a body count. You only have yourself to blame.”

“It couldn’t be helped! He made me!” After the accidental but totally unavoidable murder, Eggsy was going to make it look like an accident. Cult Leader takes a meditative walk, accidentally takes a tumble down a ravine and breaks his neck, as you do. Shit happens. Except, the Inner Circle had made a rather untimely entrance as he was trying to move the body and instead of killing him, they decided to crown him king. Or the psycho equivalent thereof. “Now they’ve got me wearing these,” Eggsy glances down at his blindingly white shirt and trousers ensemble. His holy garments, he’d been told. Like he’s the fucking Pope, “Weird pyjamas and I gotta do some sorta purification ceremony tonight? I don’t know what the fuck that’s gonna be and I’m not really keen on finding out, yeah?”

Because if it were anything like what Eggsy had to go through to get in with the cult in the first place, which involved drinking tea laced with ayahuasca that made him barf and shit for three days straight whilst hallucinating all sorts of weird fucking things like a thousand Mr Pickles with butterfly wings zooming about his head telling him he was holding his knife wrong, he was gonna tell Merlin and Kingsman to go fuck themselves and try his luck at making an escape through the mountains barefoot.

“Relax.” Merlin sounded bored. Eggsy was about to be given a holy water enema and made to ritualistically fuck a tree or something, and Merlin sounded like he’s stuck having to watch _Find It, Fix It, Flog It_ for six hours straight. “We have backup arriving.”

“Oh thank fucking god,” Eggsy breathed out in relief. “When?”

“Well, uh, ETA was technically four hours ago, but you know that bastard’s late for everything.”

Wait. That sounded an awful lot like….  


Just then, two cult minions entered his tent and Eggsy hastily whipped off his glasses and hid them behind his back. It wasn’t very smooth and spylike at all, but his new followers acted like he could do no wrong. Probably hadn’t even seen it, grovelling in the sand as they were doing before him.

“Holy Prophet,” one of them said. Eggsy really ought to start learning their names, but he wasn’t planning on sticking around long enough for it to matter. “A Lost Soul has arrived at the camp seeking Enlightenment. He has been brought to the Great Hall for your assessment.”

It took Eggsy a good minute to parse what the fuck she’d just said. “Right. Fantastic. Let’s go have a look, then, shall we?”

The minions accompanied him across the camp along with his newly appointed bodyguards, two large, overly muscular men who looked like they ate entire horses for breakfast (Eggsy wasn’t entirely sure they weren’t there to actually keep _him_ in line). Their little entourage drew the attention of every member in the camp, who paused and dropped to their knees as Eggsy passed, bowing their heads and reverently muttering, _Holy Prophet_.

It was unnerving and bizarre.

Finally, they approached a bit tent setup that looked like it had once been hired out for weddings. The minions opened up the flaps for him and Eggsy stepped through.

Only to find Harry kneeling in the middle of the assembled crowd in his perfect bespoke suit, looking up at him like he couldn’t decide on being disappointed, commiserating, or amused.

For fuck’s sake. He was never gonna live this down.  


“Holy Prophet,” the original minion said. Eggsy was gonna call her OG Minion. “This man says his name is Harry Hart and has travelled a long way to see you.”

“Indeed, O Holy One,” Harry added dryly, the little shit. “I find my life utterly lacking in…virtue, and seek a better way to live.”  


Harry was outright smirking now. Eggsy wanted to wipe it off his face. “Then tell me, Lost Soul, what are your sins that you seek to be free from? Unburden yourself to your Holy Father.” And Jesus, that sounded fucking _wrong_ , but no one was calling him out on it, so whatever.  


Harry blinked, but swiftly recovered his poise that wasn’t anything like the dejected, weary lost soul he claimed to be. “I indulge in various substances. Gin, mainly. But I won’t turn down a good scotch or brandy.” And as if realising that didn’t seem quite like enough to drive a man to give up all his worldly possessions and travel halfway across the world to join a cult, “And I fuck. A lot.”

The silence thought the tent felt thick, and somewhat stunned. Eggsy snapped his mouth shut. “You…you….”

“Fuck,” Harry said helpfully, “A lot.”

“Engage in carnal relations,” Eggsy said, glaring at him, because, what the fuck. “Excessively.”

“Oh yes, excessively. Exorbitantly. Sinfully.” Harry shrugged and even raised a hand to start ticking them off. “Men. Women. Those who choose to identify as both. Or neither. Doesn’t really matter. It’s a compulsion. I’ve probably done half of London by now. I’m practically another tourist attraction.”

“Right.” Eggsy’s face felt hot. He felt like he was supposed to do something, so he nodded wisely and clapped his hands together like a twat. “Right. Well, sounds pretty bad, yeah? Like…you really need Jesus. Er. Enlightenment. By the Powers Above, er, the Divine Being, as channelled through me, the Holy Prophet. I will…wash your…uh, sins away and make you as clean as a…field. With newly fallen snow. And bleating newborn lambs. That no one has run through yet and made…brown. And sinful.”

Dear god. Dear god, no one was stopping him. Someone needed to stop him. It certainly wasn’t gonna be Harry, that fucking bastard, who was looking at him like he really wanted to see where all this would end up. Fuck him.

“But first!” Everyone jumped. Alright, so Eggsy might have shouted that one a bit too loudly in his increasing anxiety. “I’d like private word with you in my quarters. Er, sanctum. Whatever.”

He practically dragged Harry back to his tent, which should have been a lot hotter than it actually was. When they were finally left alone, Eggsy hissed at him, “Fucking really?”

“Well, I probably couldn’t have gone with having killed hundreds of people,” Harry pointed out. “Get all sorts of looks for that one, for some reason.”  


“Because just so you know…wait, you think you’ve killed hundreds of people?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Harry said. “Probably in the low thousands by now, more like.”  


Christ, put like that, they really were all a bunch of murderers. That really put things in perspective, didn’t it? Eggsy must have killed hundreds of people when he told Merlin to set off all them chips. And he hadn’t even been hired yet. Fuck. He shook his head. “So I’m up shit’s creek, and Merlin sent _you_ in as backup.”  


“It would seem to be the case.”

“Great. And just what sort of plan you got to get us out of this before they find out the truth and set us on fire as sacrifices to Xenu?”

“Well, to be honest, I hadn’t expected you to be promoted to Leader when I arrived. You’ve made everything much more complicated now.”

“It was an accident! And you were late!”

“So now you’re under constant guard and everyone watches your every move because they actually believe you shit rainbows,” Harry said aloud, thinking. “On the other hand, your word is law, so you can probably make up some sort of decree that you need to cleanse with your newest adherent personally and we can make our escape out the back.”

“But my word’s not _quite_ law yet. I’ve still got to go through some sort of fucking ceremony before I get crowned. They ain’t gonna postpone _that_ for your shitfest bender.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Shitfest bender?”  


“Fuck.” Eggsy grabbed his hair, ignoring him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m really gonna have to do this, aren’t I? Do you think they’ll make me fuck a tree, Harry?”

Harry clapped a hand on his shoulder in consolation. “Courage, Eggsy. You’ll do fine.” Eggsy noted he didn’t negate the possibility of tree fucking though. “Besides, how bad can it possibly be?”

Eggsy gave him a long look. Some backup support Harry was. Thanks a lot, Merlin.  


So, Eggsy called back in his personal minions to take Harry to his welcome ceremony. “Enjoy the tea, Harry.”

And he couldn’t help grinning even as Harry gave him one last bewildered look on his way out.  


**Author's Note:**

> Got a prompt? Feel free to ask away at [futuredescending.tumblr.com](http://futuredescending.tumblr.com), though I can't promise I will get to every one nor in any sort of timely fashion.


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